


The Other Side of the Page

by catididnt



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Happy Ending, Imaginary friend AU, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lonely Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catididnt/pseuds/catididnt
Summary: Alone on the Wall of Eden, no demon snake slithers up to interrupt Aziraphale's worrying with a comment about lead balloons. In need of solace, he imagines such a demon instead, an adversary to test his thoughts against and help him prepare his arguments for when he debates a real demon. And, eventually, someone to share a drink with.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 90
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	1. 11 years ago

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Fancy Trinkets at https://fancytrinkets.tumblr.com/post/617834531445178368/the-snuffleupagus-au

**In The Beginning**

It begins, as it will end, in a garden. More precisely, it begins above a garden, on the edge of it, where a lone angel watches two humans cross the sands with only each other. And a sword. They also carry a sword. To be precise, Adam carries it and it happens to be on fire, as it belongs - _ha_ _d_ _belonged_ \- to an angel. But they really shouldn't be wondering the wilds of Earth on their own, without any defense, not when Eve's expecting. And no one seems to notice, no one at all. In all honestly, the angel has started wondering if Heaven - the angels in Heaven - even realize the humans broke the rules.

Not about leaving. He isn't exactly sure if leaving is against the rules. After all, for all the wall kept them inside, no one said they couldn't leave. As he understands, the wall is to keep others out. It's just, really, no one upstairs noticed about the fruit and eating, even though that is very specifically in the rules. Honestly, Aziraphale hadn't noticed either and he was stationed right here, on the Eastern Gate, keeping the demons out.

But then what about the demon, who never crossed the Eastern Gate? He's quite certain no one realized it got inside. Now it's just there. Here. What does he do about that? They told him to guard the Gate and to let no one past. And - And, and no one passed his Gate!

So... what now?

Just before his belt snaps, he drops the cords he's worrying at. God must know, really, so does Heaven know? Do the other angels? He's done everything they said he should and nothing they said he shouldn't. Not that they'll be happy he gave his sword to the humans. And there's the demon in the garden. He should probably find and smite it. They'll notice that. Gabriel, and Micheal and... Does Uriel cover the garden? Does Raphael? He's not even certain who he reports to yet. They were all there, giving him a commendation for his part in the battle and telling him to guard the Gate. A Principality guards, after all.

He should probably smite that demon.

Eyes still on the two figures in the desert, he sighs heavily. Eve cursed to suffer childbirth, which he didn't quite understand yet since it's not ever happened with the humans, and Adam cursed to toil. Because they broke the rules. It seems so... But God's commandment... But just a piece of fruit... It all felt so...

 _...it went down like a lead balloon_...

Startled so badly by the thought, Aziraphale glances over his shoulder, as if anyone would speak to him even to mock him. More likely that demon than an angel, because only a demon would indulge a critique of God's judgment.

_Not very subtle of the Almighty, with a fruit tree in the middle of the garden. Why not put it on top of the mountain? Or the moon? Makes you wonder what God's really planning._

"Best not to speculate," Aziraphale murmurs immediately, cutting off his own blasphemy. A demon would blasphemy, because he is a demon, so... imagining such a conversation prepared Aziraphale for the eventual battle of wit against one. With a demon in the garden, he must be prepared. The demon who convinced the humans to eat the fruit must be a crafty, wily thing. Slippery as a snake. 

"It's part of the Great Plan," he reminds himself, stumbling to firmer ground. "It's not for us to understand, not any of us. It's ineffable." That is the perfect word, encompassing everything about God, Her creation and Her intentions. Ineffable. Smiling at nothing, he feels warmer, grateful for an imaginary 'companion' to test his thoughts. "You can't second-guess ineffability. There's Right and there's Wrong. If you do Wrong when you're told to do Right, you deserve to be punished." Not liking the conclusions one could draw from that reasoning, he frowns. It seems too... much, too overarching.

Except, he must have the right of it now. When the angels did Wrong, God cast them out from Heaven. When the humans did Wrong, God cursed them and they left Eden. When told so, one must do Right. Not overarching, it is merely straightforward, simple. Understandable. Do Right. 

The roar startles him, a lion attacking Adam and Eve in the distance, but he's only a moment to worry for them before Adam deals with it. A lion cannot compete with an angelic sword. 

Had that been a mistake? No one said they couldn't have a sword, and it'd be far worse to have dead humans than a dead lion, wouldn't it? He gave them the sword for fear of the wild beasts, which is exactly how Adam used it. Except, now, the lion is dead. The first animal to die has died on his sword. Had he done the wrong thing? Even if he'd not been told the Right thing?

_You're an angel. I don't think you can do the wrong thing._

"Hey! Tighty-whities!"

A real shout, not imagined words, from within the garden, not from a demon standing on the wall with him. No, Aziraphale is alone, among the angels up in Heaven and here on Earth, guarding Eden. Alone except for a bleach-blond demon on the ground just within the garden, her hair done up in a perfect braid and both eyes fully iridescent.

"Bang up job you did keeping the humans away from the tree! Barely had to say two words and they-"

A resounding crack and the towering oak drops a branch twice as thick as either of their wingspan on her. Smashed into the dirt, she'll not recover. That takes care of the demon, one less thing to worry over.

"I suppose the Right thing is reporting to Heaven," he murmurs, and winces at the reprimand and paperwork waiting for him regardless who he reports to. Undoubtedly, they will notice a demon died within the garden. 'Undoubtedly,' he believes. They are likely to notice and he best be ready to tell them. "But the hole in the wall first."

Just to his left, and slightly behind, in his corporation's blind spot, he imagines a snort and a chuckle. _Not telling them the humans left on their own? They slipped away when no one,_ _else,_ _watched?_

Smiling to himself, he shakes his head as he crosses the wall, imaginary footsteps accompanying him along the patter of rain. Already planning his report, he knows he can stay well within their structure without mentioning the humans broke out of Eden. There is no rule about that.

~~~

In a universe no farther away than a slip of paper, just barely far enough to be on the other side, the demon climbs the wall and startles the angel. Rather than even pretend at conversation, the angel spins on him, about to attack before stopping short in horror, and Crawly realizes the angel is missing his weapon. Initially, he blames the humans and then accuses the demon, except Crawly saw him about the garden earlier and the fool forever left it unattended. When he responds to questions with insults, Crawly rolls his eyes and slithers away, finding a warm rock to sun on.

Isn't like he wants to return Hell and there's no one else here to chat with, so might as well snooze. Except... Talking with Eve reminded him how he once chatted with anyone. Now he's fortunate if he's only insulted and counts on lost weaponry to keep him from being attacked. Flicking his tongue, he hopes the humans survive. He likes having someone to talk to.

Then clouds cover the sky, robbing him of the sun's warmth, right before water starts dropping from them! Hissing at all of it, he hides beneath the undergrowth. Deserves it, crawling on his belly and all. Eve listened to him and she's been cursed by God Themself. It'd take the idea of an angel, a being who really loves everyone, unlike the wankers in Heaven who insult and smite, to want his company.

**11 Years Ago (2007)**

The sushi didn't deserve Aziraphale's frown, yet he couldn't raise his eyes to Gabriel. If he started eating only a few moments earlier, it would taste delicious, every bite perfection, and now he'd not be able to enjoy it. Perhaps he should just nod and agree, not bring up the reports he'd supplied in the past centuries, not correct Gabriel and pretend the Archangel hadn't misspoken. The whole horrid conversation, the very presence of Gabriel on Earth, would end that much quicker if he agreed.

Except... it had been quite some time ago.

"A priest banished the demon Scuttley in the 14th century," he finally said, eyes flicking up then back to the safety of his poor, delicious sushi. "I believe she's still in one of Hell's pits because of it, but she is most certainly not in London, or England. Not the UK or- The demon Radok replaced her, however he discorporated fourteen times in 1962 and another three in 1963, before he ceased returning. I believe he is buried deeper than Scuttley, though I wouldn't know. And, just last year, several students happened on a religious relic and smote the demon Swimy. In my follow up, I learned they believed they were summoning him using a relic, but..."

Before his follow up, he sold the students the 'wicked old' book, but Swimy had been far too keen to prove himself, far too interested in humans politics and trends and how he could use them. Aziraphale didn't dare let him learn enough to start mimicking them. They got into quite enough trouble on their own, thank you very much, and a motivated demon was the last thing he needed. Almost, he missed Scuttley, the lazy old hag. She knew how to kick back and let humans manage their own affairs, except she encouraged their cruelty too frequently. For most of his stint, Rodok was wonderfully ineffective, until things clicked for him in the late 1950s, and those last two years he at least amused Aziraphale. Not that the angel was ever nearby when he discorporated. In fact, he was never around when any of them left the mortal realm.

"Whatever is afoot, I don't believe it likely, though not entirely impossible of course, that Scuttley is directly involved. Those who since replaced her since are far less likely to be involved. I had hoped..." he added, and mistakenly glanced up. A habit from the humans, adding a small bit of eye contact when he addressed his own expectations, and he knew he should not have dared correct him. It hardly mattered which demon was assigned to Earth, especially their names and when they'd been demoted, even if he included this information in his reports.

It'd just been so long since he'd spoken to Gabriel, and it never occurred to him might appear on Earth while Aziraphale was among the humans. He wasn't certain if this ever happened before, certainly not in the last thousand years. Aziraphale hadn’t even had the preparation of _going_ to Heaven to speak with him.

"I had thought," he said more softly, desperate to finish the sentence so Gabriel would start talking and stop frowning. Whatever he came to tell Aziraphale, it must be very important and he'd interrupted the delivery. "That is, I'd hoped they wouldn't send someone up again so soon. Of course, I only learn of the details afterward, so perhaps I was mistaken on one of those matters."

"It's a miracle you know so much about them and yet they never notice you," Gabriel said, his observation an insult despite the words and then his amazing smile, which obviously wished it it could also never notice him, returned. "I know! Miracles are what we do! And you'll need them because they're not just 'sending up' a demon. They’re sending the Antichrist and you don't even know which demon is on Earth to watch him. Find out. Keep us informed." He clapped Aziraphale's shoulder hard enough to stagger him, the brilliant smile never wavering, and briskly walked away.

Though he murmured his goodbye, Gabriel was already gone. First taking a moment to straighten himself, fixing his bow tie, straightening his jacket and pulling at his vest, he tried to enjoy his meal. Of course the chef stopped by to ask if he liked it, and of course he complimented it profusely even though he hardly tasted what he ate. He couldn't let a true artist go without his accolades simply because he was out of sorts. But then, breaking his habit of lingering over his sake, he skipped it. No point in extending his misery among humans attentive to his mood.

Walking back to the his shop the long way, starting in the opposite direction and not circling back until well after dark, he tried to sort through the implications and conclusions. The Antichrist would bring about the End of the World (every author among his collection of prophecies touched on the End Times at some point), but instead of thinking of that, he kept thinking of Gabriel's frown and his foolish correction. He should've just listened. Nothing he said mattered, not really, and what was a few hundred years or the name of the demon? It was what they assigned Aziraphale to Earth to do, watching those demons, so it couldn't be important.

The Antichrist was important, though, and he'd messed up Gabriel's delivery. Doubtless, Mary hadn't interrupted Gabriel when he delivered his message about the Christ.

Considering the woman, even if he'd not been in attendance when Gabriel spoke to her, Aziraphale shook his head at himself and turned onto his own street. If she'd not screamed, she probably threw something at him. Had Gabriel delivered the message to Joseph as well?

 _She chucked her ladle at his head, spilled sauce all over his robes, and screamed her head_ _off_ _._ Leaning against the side of the bookshop, Crawly watched him walk up the steps. _Poor woman was pregnant for no reason and knew her fiance_ _would dump her when he found out_ _. A little too stressed_ _for_ _have a visit from Gabriel._

"Not now," he whispered as he unlocked his door. Crawly snorted, at both dismissal and whisper. "Go on, go do... whatever it is you do. I need to think."

With a bark of laugh for whatever an imaginary demon could do, he whistled to himself as he walked away, footsteps retreating even if they weren't real. Despite that, Azirphale smiled, warmed that, even if only in his own mind, someone respected his boundaries.

With the door securely locked behind him, which wouldn't stop Gabriel from appearing with more news and his frown somehow worse than his smile, Aziraphale turned on the lamps and then turned them off again. More than once, he turned them off as he entered a room and on when he left, moving from room to room, all of them empty, devoid of solutions or plans.

No, they were not. He was being melodramatic and he could do better than this. Not enough to impress Gabriel, regardless how soon he found the Antichrist and the demon holding him, but enough so he would not feel this aching loss in his gut. For thousands of years, he collect prophetic scrolls and then books, always fascinated with how the humans saw the future and, as the future arrived, to experience it himself.

Not all of them Christian writers, which meant they would not aid him in finding the Antichrist directly, they could still overlap and may help narrow it down. Whatever information he could glean could help him now, and a night spent reading the old, familiar texts would sooth his nerves. Preparing a cup of cocoa, he arranged it on the desk next to his note paper then cross referenced and settled down with the most promising resources.

The sun was high when he finally stood to fetch more tea two days later, and little to show for it except the vaguest of an impractical number of connections, over a dozen potential timelines, and nothing he hadn't know before he started. After all, he knew these texts so well, he could have spent a night in thought, applying Gabriel's announcement to them, and come to the same conclusions. If he'd been calm enough to think, but then he would have only finished a day earlier, still without a plan. He rubbed his face and sighed.

Thinking of Crawly, he touched his phone. No one to call, obviously, he had no angel, and definitely no demon, contacts who might give him answers, though he'd a few channels, through human individuals, who never realized who they dealt with. None of them could discuss the impending end of the world with me. Not anyone real. Yet a walk outdoors would do him good.

Gathering up some frozen corn and peas, which defrosted as he picked up the bag, he started for the park. Stretching his legs, trying to clear his mind, he breathed deeply. Not the freshest air, not in central London. Even before the cars, there'd frequently been the stench of too many humans too close. Yet he'd grown used to them, for all their annoyances, and he'd soon be bereft of them.

No, not bereft. Heaven would win. It would be perfect. Far far better than now.

At St. John's, he settled into his favorite bench, always empty when he arrived regardless how crowded the park, and retrieved the vegetables. While he tossed them to the ducks, Crawly arrived and Aziraphale never glanced up.

The tall, lanky demon dropped onto the bench, lounging as if still a snake, the tattoo on his temple and yellow slit eyes constant reminders of his demonic nature. Shedding styles as often as snakes did skin, always in the black and red of his snake body, he was better at playing human than the other demons, wearing the latest fashion and dark hair matching the latest style, like a young lawyer who smirked at everyone else and never sat up straight.

"We will win, of course," Aziraphale said. Only the most uniquely perceptive of humans would notice him on the bench, and they'd see only a middle-aged man, dressed so painfully out of style it'd become fashionable again. They'd imagine he spoke to the ducks and he’d not be even close to the oddest person they saw in the park. "Heaven will finally triumph over Hell. It's all going to be rather lovely."

Silence. Six thousand years spent on Earth, never requesting a return to Heaven, called out Aziraphale's claim of 'lovely.'

 _Out of interest,_ Crawly drew the words out, half yawning as he watched the ducks chase the veggies, _how many first class composers do you lot have in Heaven? Because Mozart's one of ours. Beethoven. Shubert. All of the Bachs..._

"They have already written their music." They choose their afterlife in the way they lived and their music remained even when they didn't.

 _And you'll never hear it again. No more Albert Hall, no more Gyndebourn, no more proms, no more gramophones._ He leaned forward and whispered, Aziraphale's skin tingling where he should've felt his breath. _Just celestial harmoniesssssss._

_Forever._

As a shiver chased down Aziraphale's spine, Crawly waited until the ducks complained and Aziraphale hastily fed them.

_And that's just the start of what you lose if you win. No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No gravlax with dill sauce. No more old bookshops. No more old books._

"It will be better." Because it was Right. I would be Right for Heaven to win. "For everyone."

_Everyone who prefers the company of angels to ducks. You gonna replace the corn with a harp?_

Standing before he realized he moved, he gave himself a shake that did even less to better his certainty. Of course speaking to the demon would make it feel worse. Of course walking among the humans and knowing the End of the World approached would make it feel worse. Of course feeding the ducks in his favorite park while sitting at his favorite bench would make it would make it feel worse. Instead of finding answers, he changed his questions.

"I need a drink," he murmured and flung the entire contents of his bag across the grass. Let the ducks enjoy it now, while they could. Retracing his steps out of the park, he tucked the empty bag into a bin.

_Lots and lots of alcohol._

"It doesn't matter what I think of it," Aziraphale said, yet again, holding his glass close to his chest. Back within the imagined safety of his bookshop, huddled in his chair and surrounded by bottles of wine, both empty and several full and waiting, he said once more what he always said. "It doesn't matter what I- I can't interfere with divine plans! I can't can't even follow diving orders! I can't find him! None of it matters."

"Maybe you can't find him," Crawly said, pausing his prowl about the couch to point his wine glass at Aziraphale, speaking as if he didn't believe Aziraphale really couldn't, just hadn't yet, then jerked his hand back and tapped his chest, "but I bet I can." His wine sloshed but never spilled. It couldn't spill, it couldn't stain.

"Ab-so...lutely no." He took too deep a drink of wine, but it proved an ineffective hiding place. Crawly still watched him when he lowered the glass. He scrunched his nose. "No."

"You just said it doesn't matter." He slid over the couch's back, landing in a comfortable slouch. Comfortable for him. "Give it a try. That pretentious git doesn't credit you enough, he gave an order he thinks you can't do- because he's an idiot. He never recognizes how smart you are. Let's show him up. I bet you can find the Antichrist in one night."

"You can't talk about - FINE!" Couldn't have Crawly talking about Gabriel like that, even if he never actually spoke. With a heavy sigh, first generously refilling his glass and taking an unopened bottle with him, he approached his other desk. Not the desk he spent so much time at already, all his books and scrolls laid out next to pages of notes. That desk would remain untouched while he was sloshed. Rather, he all but slammed the bottle down next to the old IBM, the one he used for taxes and all the nonsense forms necessary for a business located in Soho, and frowned at Crawly. The demon had pulled up his own chair, sitting in it backwards, tipping it forward, yellow eyes bright, and wine all but forgotten in his hand. With a heavy sigh, Aziraphale sat in the little office chair and, from a false bottom in the lowest drawer, drew out a black laptop pouch with a pocket for each a cell phone and tablet. Leaving the others undisturbed, he pulled out the black laptop and scowled as he powered it on. All the keys on the keyboard were dark red, the symbols an invisible black against them. Aziraphale hadn't needed to see them in decades. (None of them had plugs and their batteries never ran down. Aziraphale rarely recalled his lamps needed electricity, he never considered it for these secret … devices.)

As humans moved faster and faster, newspapers and magazines slimmed, and information passed electronically, he'd increasingly struggled to keep up with the world's events, let alone London's events, unless he left the bookshop and _visited_ places in person. Though he initially made due, he recognized when human's fascination with their toys moved to dependence, and choose the lesser of the two evils.

Rather than an adult learning class, when the one teaching him would be younger than his wines, he put the full weight of learning on Crawly, whose love of speed and technology could guide them. Of course, Crawly had badgered him about computers and - everything - since Aziraphale decided the old IBM was enough. And, to his annoyance (and amazement) he found many of Crawly's promises true. Museums scanning their collections, uncountable new stories among webcomics and fanfictions (though he didn't always know the original fiction they were based on), and even the mundane news he could find in so much more detail.

From a variety of artists, every few years he commissioned 'the Snake of Eden,' a black snake with a red belly in their own style. They often wrapped the snake around a tree or an apple, while one creative soul added black wings with red undertones and another wrapped it about a woman's (presumably Eve's) hand. Despite Crawly's theatrical sighs, he never really objected when Aziraphale set them as the screen's background. (The demon Aziraphale smote within the garden, likely related to a type of beetle, was never acknowledged, replaced by his imaginary snake.)

Too drunk already, he smiled at the snake then sighed again as he opened the browser. He didn't use any of the known ones, and simply asked the internet directly. "Even if we found him right now, it's been more than one night since-" 

"The git showed up the day before yesterday, right? Check the news. It'll be in the news by now."

"I can find 'The Antichrist Born!' all the time."

"Not that obvious."

Aziraphale drank deeply of his wine then frowned over his shoulder. "I'm not popping across the country to investigate portents either. I absolutely refuse."

"Wha? No! We not looking for portents. My lot ain't subtle, not about this, even if they're not going to put it in the headline. We're not looking for a two-headed calf; we're looking for the Antichrist."

"Fine." A few clicks and he opened several generic news pages that detailed 'world shattering' events and celebrates' lives.

"Naw, naw. Like I said, not that obvious. Can't tip off your lot."

"Someone already did," he grumbled, searching for recent, high-profile births. Then he started clicking randomly or let Crawly guide him, the demon starting to mutter threats at the laptop, a sign he may need to sell it to be refurbished and get a new one soon. Not even the Antichrist would destroy the world faster than a computer went obsolete lately.

"No! Wait - Go back! There!" Two hours and another bottle of wine later, Crawly nearly tipped his chair over as he pointed at the screen, which already returned to the previous page. Not the article itself, but a headline below.

They'd happened on a poorly designed website, probably put together in the early 90s, and, in the news 'bar,' among other articles that included Florida Man's latest hijinks, was a link for a Tadfield nunnery that caught fire last night. St. Beryl's Convent Birthing Hospital burned down immediately after the American Ambassador's wife gave birth to a healthy baby boy; she'd been visiting a nearby airbase when she'd gone into labor and used the local facility. She was very grateful for their welcoming kindness and terribly saddened such a beautiful building had been lost. 

"There!" Crawly crowed, rocking back in his chair. "That's what my side does. They think burning it up gets rid of the evidence when all it does it put a big red ‘Look At This’ flag on it."

"The Chattering Order of Saint Beryl?" Aziraphale murmured as he continued reading "I don't recall a Saint Beryl."

"Sure you do, if you remember my side. Really, what Catholics encouraged women, especially nuns, to talk?" He snorted. "They'll be Satanists, which isn't much better, annoying in a whole different way. They think they wanted what Hell wants, for some reason."

"The American Ambassador though?"

"The Earth and All Kingdoms Within. I bet no one suggests he gets replaced for the next eleven years, even if he's no smarter than his boss."

"Oh, one of them died," he continued, still reading rather than replying to Crawly's commentary. Finding the Antichrist neither improved his mood, nor had the alcohol. He might feel worse now than when Gabriel showed up. "Sister Theresa Garrulous. Poor dear."

"That poor dear just kidnapped a newborn human baby and replaced him with the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World and Lord of Darkness. His mother won't ever know she's got the wrong kid and who knows what happened to the other one."

Raising his brows, Aziraphale nearly kept his eyes on the screen then huffed and regarded his friend. "You did all that just because she choose the name garrulous, didn't you?"

"Best way to honor a fallen chattering nuns, isn't it?" he asked, smiling hugely then gestured with his wine glass. "So look up the Ambassador's wife's address and you can check it out to confirm the demons are ready to guard and guide the Adversary, Destroy of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World and Lord of Darkness then you can report to that git about what a good job you've done. See if he tells you to do anything else, the way he will be doing every day once Heaven is all that's left, and you won't have wine or sushi or books to keep you distracted."

"I've told you," he said again, trying to sound stern but the wine and despair make it into a plea, "I can't - not obey. I'm an angel. I'm not allowed. I can't interfere with the divine plan." Perhaps he needed more wine.

"What about diabolical plans?" Crawly asked, both arms folded over the chair's back as he tilted it forward again. "Those were satanic nuns, the Antichrist is Satan's son, that's all my side. The git even told you to report on the kid, that's your side. Clearly, you should be involved."

"But the divine plan," he began, but his objection sounded too weak so he stopped to and drew himself up, as straight as he could with the amount of wine he already consumed. While he should be sober for such a conversation, he'd rather not think clearly right now either. "I encourage humans to-"

"That's half the kid! He's half human! Hell will send up their worst demons, and you've been handling them for thousands of years already. Do it right, and he won't be evil or good. He'll be normal. Human."

"Gabriel... Heaven couldn't actually object to me thawting demons," he agreed slowly. Even when Gabriel frowned at him for interrupting him, he'd done so because Aziraphale corrected him, not because of the demons' fate.

Crawly's smile broadened. "It'll be a real feather in your wing."

A few weeks after, Aziraphale joined a deliver-assembly service hired to handle the equipment the Dowlings order. Not that the paperwork included him, nor did the others know his name, but no one questioned his presence or why he did so little work. Identifying the dozen demons, one from each department of Hell, hardly proved a challenge. Horrible gossips, it took an embarrassingly small amount of effort to piece together Hell’s plans.

After Swimy failed so soon after Radok, Beelzebub once again lost their position, which they'd only regained during Scuttley's time, and they were unlikely to win it back in the next decade and lead the hosts of Hell in the last battle. Instead, Satan decided his son would pick the next Prince of Hell, thus the reason all the departments sent a representative. No doubt, they'd half their number before the end of the month, and Aziraphale could only hope the humans quit before they became entangled in it.

After finding an excuse to see the Antichrist, and mildly amazed at how adorable and human-like the little Destroyer of Worlds appeared, he carried his findings to Heaven. For the first time in ages, Michael and Uriel joined Gabriel to hear his report, and even included Sanalphon. They unanimously and without discussion denied his request to deal directly with the demons, so he explained his proposal to influence the boy's life instead, teaching him good and bringing balance to his human nature.

They agreed just to get rid of him and he breathed freely only after he escaped.

~~~~

On the other side of the page, Crowley picked up and delivered the Antichrist to St. Beryl’s as instructed, handing the basket off to Sister Mary Loquacious, giving her the room number the expectant father shared, and went straight to drinking. Not immediately, unfortunately, he wouldn't risk the Bentley and had no intention of sobering up for the next week once he started. The drive back gave him time to consider his options, to plan and discuss, but once back in his flat, he reached directly for a bottle. He bought it intending a celebration tonight, after he spent the afternoon strolling the street's of London and listening to them yell at their uncooperative phones. All that work barely recalled now, he'd no one to call for it to matter him.

Meanwhile, in Heaven, Gabriel had no informant able to tell him of the Antichrist's impending arrival. (Occasionally, when bored, Crowley found them and laid enough false trails to get them in trouble and booted.) Instead, Gabriel learned of the Antichrist at the same time as Uriel, when Michael informed them at the morning meeting the next week. (Though Ligur told her earlier, he'd not known where Hell had Crowley bring the Antichrist. Instead of an emergency meeting, she searched for the Antichrist herself but none of the nearby major hospitals had matching births.) When brought up to report, the angel stationed on Earth assured them the Serpent was Eden was _not_ in England, and definitely not London. That started another row between Gabriel, who insisted there was no Antichrist, and Michael, who said the Serpent must've brought him to the mainland. With a roll of her eyes, Uriel left them at it and went to get real work done.

No celestial beings arrived at the Dowling's residence, only a the demonic Mary Poppins. If she indulged baby Warlock with lullabies about an old-fashioned angel, often with a song about all the foods he enjoyed and occasionally with a song about his favorite books, and once of his love for all the creatures on Earth (which even included the demon who lived there instead of Hell), well, no one one would know. Not even the Antichrist would recall the first songs he heard.


	2. The Dowlings

**Nine years ago** **(2009)**

Among the open positions, the live-in gardener had remained vacant over a year and a half, when the last had watched all his plants die. More than a few were twice his age and he'd grown others from seedlings, tending them for years, and yet they wilted and rotted no matter what he did. Others followed, of course, none lasted a week. Increasingly, the Ambassador's residence relied on temp services, paying well for those who remained and still enduring a high turnover. At least, Aziraphale needn't trick his way in, merely applying gained him employment, and then he spent his first several months reassuring the remaining flora and cleaning out the minor curses about the place, all without any obvious blessings or miracles, not with so many demons nearby. Fortunately, though they clearly had initially, they rarely wandered the grounds now.

Inside the house was a different disaster. The demons required humans to head the household, as they themselves wouldn't put in a full days work or endure the mundane social niceties, and they wanted Warlock to grow up with status and money, after all, Satan placed him here intentionally, so they couldn't risk a direct scandal. Otherwise, both parents would likely be gone. After two years, only three fractions remained from the twelve departments, all with rather more than one representative. One fraction courted Mr. Dowling, the second supported Mrs. Dowling, and the third, smallest fraction shifted alliance constantly, surviving because the other two used and ignored it. Meanwhile, for the prized position, Warlock's nanny died twice and disappeared three times, a new nanny always ready to start the next day. (Only one nanny each time, never a second applicant. The real interview happened in Hell, not on Earth.) Meanwhile, any staff near young Warlock shifted frequently. After two years of researching children and child-rearing, Aziraphale suspected Hell stumbled on the best way to turn poor child against humanity, but even more so against his supposed caretakers.

While the gardens rebounded, the outdoor staff stabilized as well, fortunately unnoticed by both Dowlings and demons. The poor remaining humans needed more encouragement than the plants and 'kind-hearted' Frank (somehow, his introduction had become "this is Francis, but we all call him Frank" and Aziraphale hadn't thought to object) was glad to listen. For all he missed his quiet evenings in his shop, his fellow workers provided all the insight (gossip) he needed into the main house and he was glad someone in this horrible situation improved somewhere.

A year passed without seeing anything of Warlock, which Crawly remained him he planned on, intentionally arriving early enough so he'd be established when Warlock was old enough to realize he existed. Yet each year brought the Apocalypse closer. So little time, when compared to all the time he'd been stationed on Earth, and he couldn't even use it all.

On a particular wet day, while the windows rattled and thunder grumbled above, the shed door started banging. Anywhere else, he'd just miracle it secure, except the demons still occasionally pranked the outdoor staff, and they might feel a blessing undo their work. They might feel a blessing regardless, which meant he'd need to find out exactly how wet it was outside. Unable to ignore it, especially when he couldn't miracle clean any mess the water might make, he waved for Crawly to sit up, and ignored his complaints about his favorite pillow moving. Bookmark already placed, Aziraphale told him to stop playing that candy game on his phone long enough to move or he'd have to go himself.

"I'm staying dry and warm," Crawly informed him. Aziraphale hummed at the unnecessary comment.

With a heavy poncho too keep him dry and warm, again not risking a habitual miracle, he stomped into the wind and rain, just an average human gardener thinking unangelic thoughts of tricking his demonic coworkers into killing everyone inside their nice big dry house. Enough of terrified plants, enough of stressed humans, enough of demons this close when he couldn't deal with them (all the previous demons he ignored until they became troublesome and then he found a human to take care of them, he never lived on the same estate with them), enough of skipping simple miracles, enough of heavy boots and mere physical protection from cold, wet wind, the rain splattering his face, enough of banging doors. Really, it'd take so little effort to trick the demons into blaming each other and hardly anything to help it escalate. Very sad, but Heaven certainly did worse than destroy a single, overly important family - and far better than losing all of the Earth. And Heaven wouldn't be doing it -Aziraphale wouldn't do it. The demons would.

But if they did destroyed the whole mess (a rather pleasant thought, especially because it would allow him to return to his nice, warm bookshop rather than leaning into the wind and reaching for the wildly swinging door), could they make another Antichrist? Was only one possible? Could he even be killed? What if demonic - or angelic - miracles didn't work on him? Or perhaps in a mundane physical fashion? Could Aziraphale ensure the demons brought the house down or dropped a meteorite on it or-

The Antichrist was in his shed.

A mud-soaked three year old stood on his worktable holding trimmers twice his size, his small fingers wrapped around the blade and already starting to slip though his grasp.

Aziraphale caught his wrists and pulled his arms apart, the slick mud and Warlock's surprise helping his hands slide away unharmed, but the child stumbled. Among so many sharp edged tools, this was no less dangerous, so Aziraphale lifted him away from it all - only to have him slide between his hands. Covered more in water than mud, yet slick with both, Warlock giggled and wiggled as as Aziraphale struggled to hold him. Finally giving up at their weird juggling act, he knelt and let the child drop the last little bit to his own feet.

Laughing hysterically, Warlock sat with a thumb and rolled backward.

"Suppose now's the time then," Crawly said, leaning against the door. Aziraphale hadn't even realized he closed after he saw Warlock and rushed in. "No witnesses, big storm, off on his own. It'd take only a 'slip' in the mud, or 'falling' into an overflowing gutter. Terrible shame, so sad. Leave the body anywhere on the property and save the world, just like that. Home in time for tea."

Frowning deeply, Aziraphale glared over his shoulder at his friend. "Absolutely not. Now stop these ridiculous suggestions, my dear. I need to think."

His smile deepening, Crawly winked, the goal of his words accomplished. Only, as Aziraphale sighed deeply at his paltry temptation and turned back to Warlock, the child was staring over his shoulder, directly at the demon.

_Shit._

"Who's there?" Warlock asked, and tilted his head, already searching around Crawly instead of seeing him. Azirphale exhaled, recalling to breath, and Crawly swore more quietly in relief. Antichrist or not, Warlock couldn't see within his mind. At least, not at three.

"My friend, he helps me with the gardens," he told Warlock, which wasn't a lie. Not only gardening, but without Crawly to talk with, Aziraphale doubted he'd accomplish half of what he did. Still, he needed a better story than that for Warlock or he might repeat that old Frank the Gardener talked to himself and possibly the demons would decide to have some fun with him. He absolutely did not want the demons singling him out. "He's a giant snake and can speak to the plants. When he slithers among them, he learns what makes them happy and sad, what helps them grow bigger or hurts, and shares it all with me. But no one else can see or hear him. And," he added, with a mere dart of his eyes behind him, "he's a little cheeky."

Amidst the water and dirt covering his face and dripping from his hair, Warlock's eyes grew huge, while Crawly, still completely dry and clean, grumbled about lies and never helping at all.

"But he's a secret, you mustn't tell anyone else. Not everyone likes snakes, you know, and he's an especially large one. I don't think he's scary, I think he's beautiful and I don't want anyone hurting him. That's why he's a secret."

"I can see him!" Warlock yelled, pointing directly at Crawly. "He's all black and his head touches the ceiling!""

_What?_

"And he has a red belly," Aziraphale added, recalling how to breath a second time and smiling at both Crawly's indignity and his own worry. Of course a child could 'see' his huge snake friend, any child would.

"Oh, yes, I see it now. He's so big, and he overlaps, I couldn't see it before." Warlock agreed, still staring where Aziraphale imagined a man dressed in black, with a red shirt and socks and no taller than himself stood. His Crawly was not more real than Warlock's fully black snake, and possibly less, as Warlock came into his powers.

_I've six thousand years precedent over whatever he imagines._

"I won't tell anyone." Whispering, though loud enough to be easily overheard, Warlock hunched so close to Aziraphale, who leaned closer, that their noses nearly touched. "No one keeps secrets if you tell them, everyone tells everybody else so they all know. And they like to hurt things. I won't let them hurt your snake." The knowledge, and gentleness in his promise, broke Azirphale's heart. No child, not even the Antichrist, should grow up in a household like this.

"Thank you."

"Can I pet him? Would that be okay?"

"Of course," he agreed quickly, regaining his composure. Happy as anything, unaffected behind the implications of his words, Warlock toddled past him and reached into the emptiness. After a look from Aziraphale and a roll of his eyes, Crawly transformed into a snake, filling up the shed with his coils and extending out the door despite it being closed. Flicking his tongue, he lowered his head beneath Warlock's hand and matched his gestures. However unreal, it made an adorable picture: Warlock watching him so earnestly, petting him so carefully, so very aware how easily things could break or a moment degrade, while Crawly, so much larger he could swallow the child as a snack, fit himself perfectly under his small hand.

If Crawly flicked his tongue at Warlock, or if Warlock giggled and squirmed first, Aziraphale couldn't say. "He licked me!" Grin bright and eyes dancing, he looked to Aziraphale again. "What's his name?"

"Ah - Crawly," he admitted. Though it fit a demon, it also sounded like a silly name to amuse a child. "Because snakes crawl on their bellies."

 _Cheers_ _s_ _s, Frank_. But Crawly had only a moment to be annoyed at sharing his name and the reason for it before Warlock turned back to him. Not to pet him, but to whisper once more.

"Hi Crawly. I'm Warlock. I'm gonna be your friend too. You're black scales are really pretty. Don't listen if anyone says your bad. I think you're great, just like Fran." That was a new play on Francis, though he supposed he should be pleased Warlock recalled his name at all. Or concerned, as it could imply he heard others talking about him. A matter for another day, he supposed, and pushed himself to his feet, before Warlock could share any other depressingly lovely messages.

"Come along, young Warlock," he said, holding out his hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"I like mud!" The sweet child gone, he scowled and crossed his arms, hiding his own hands under them. "No soap!"

Not grown into his power at all, then, as the small command held no compulsion. "What about bubbles? And hot cocoa after?"

"Here?" he asked, looking about the shed. Just before Aziraphale pointed out the lack of tub, or perhaps said something about Crawly taking up too much space, Warlock added: "Not at the house? Here? With Crawly?"

"Crawly is too big for the tub, but he will drink cocoa with us. We'll get you cleaned up and warmed up, and stay here until the worst of the storm has passed. I don't know how you managed to get here on your own, but it is far too wet outside for me right now. And Crawly doesn't like thunder or lightning."

"He's safe with me!" Warlock grabbed Aziraphale's hand. "I'll protect him!"

_I'll have to slither back to the house, don't I?_

~~~~~~~~

On the other side of the page, Crowley manipulated things to his own advantage more directly. Keeping Harriet and Thaddeus happy together required no great interventions, just little suggestions of gift, reminders of the other's kindness, occasionally smoothing the way for apologies and forgiveness, and once or twice erasing a voicemail. (If a husband left the country that close to their first child's birth, and a wife named their first (and only) child Warlock instead of after her husband (as they'd previously agreed), their marriage already needed some intervention.) Less subtle hints ensured Thaddeus good enough (but not too good) for his job, and the Dowlings remained in London. Crowley could report that the Antichrist stayed where Hell put him, never mind the affects of a happy, stable marriage on a child.

In fact, so long as he could report he used tricks and kept control of those nearest Warlock, then never mind if Hell would've approved of those Crowley pruned from the Dowling's service. If he choose those who would neither spoil nor neglect the boy, well, he could tell Hell he did the best by the boy. Provide a challenge for him as well as a confidence to command the world. He could always tell Hell about the humans respect for his intelligence and intuition (even if they seemed rather, well, human to the demon watching him), as well as his many adventures against any religious, or governmental, oppression (though he meant to cast Warlock in his 'father's' shadow, it was a little too on-the-nose for Hell, so he settled for calling it 'trouble-making' when he brought the boy to every protest, occasionally ensuring Thad wouldn't hear about it). The rest of the reports he filled with blatant lies (ones he could cover, if needed, but really, when had Hell last checked up?). And he did it alone, carefully removing any hint of an imaginary angelic advisor from his reports.

In the Heaven, filled with real angels, they still couldn't find the Antichrist. But while his evil fingerprint hadn't yet been noticed, the number of portents convinced even Gabriel that Micheal had it right. While Heaven prepared for War, and as did Hell, though Beelzebub was satisfied Crowley would handle the Antichrist as well as everything else they credited him for.

**Wednesday (2018) - Three Days to the End of the World**

On his eleventh birthday, Warlock would receive a dog. The demons kept this surprise a secret so badly, Warlock starting having nightmares a month in advance. Even the Dowlings tried to dissuade them, but for the first time in over a decade, the demons who puppetted them ignored them. All the attention focused on the riot of a birthday party, and the unwilling birthday boy. Despite his faith in the good in Warlock, Aziraphale couldn't ignore how awful the demons made his life. From frequently insulting and degrading whenever he liked something 'not mean enough,' to slipping up and calling him the Antichrist (which the humans believed an unfair nickname for a boy named Warlock), to more torturous attempts to strengthen him, and, recently, trying to scare him into altering reality. It'd been a short experiment, at least, as they also feared being altered out of reality, and they'd not had the nerve to keep it up, reporting that Warlock already knew how to alter reality so well, no one noticed.

Quite likely, as soon as Warlock came into his powers, he would accept them just to unmake all the demons in Hell. But he also might unmake all of Earth and most of Heaven as well. Nearly ten, he wanted it all to burn just as Hell intended, except didn't want a dog by his side or any of the demons backing him up. (Though the adults wouldn't quite believe the demons to be actual demons, not those adults who still remained on staff at least, Warlock had decided it several years ago and they hardly tried to convince him otherwise.) He was more likely to reject the Hellhound because of the demons than anything Aziraphale managed.

Over the years, Aziraphale provided solitude for Warlock when he could, aware of and able to maneuver around the demons if not directly counter them. But he could not provide sanctuary, nor an escape or rescue, just a daydream against Warlock's reality. In truth, though, the boy was more likely to reject the Hell hound because he came from Hell. However, he also wanted to destroy all of Hell as well. Aziraphale wasn't exactly sure when Warlock realized the demons were truly demons. The adults, the remaining adults, could pick them all out and recognized them as dangerous, yet couldn't believe. Though he didn't believe in his own importance, Warlock did know they wanted him for something to end the world and, at this point, he might not hesitate to end Earth and Heaven just to get back at Hell. At the same time, he guarded a kindness which Aziraphale believed he never dared to show anyone else. Warlock desperately wanted something of himself untouched by his demonic caretakers.

 _It's all about to go horribly wrong_ , Crawly said, leaning against a statue and watching performers twirl and flip, never missing a cue despite the heavy anticipation. _I don't know what'll happen next, but whatever it is, we're going to regret it._

"If we've done our part well, Warlock will send the dog away unnamed." For the last day, he dressed as Francis and stood in shadows of the grounds. If anyone spotted him, they'd think he pretended to work so he could see the show.

_He still adores you, whatever else. He almost still believes I exist, if only because it's something you share._

"Ten to three," Aziraphale said, as he had ten minutes ago, and twenty minutes before that, and snapped his pocket watch closed as he returned it to his pocket. He didn't need it to know the time, of course, but the weight felt reassuring.

_And what happens if he does tell the dog to shoo? Does he stop being the Antichrist and suddenly becomes a normal kid? What will the dog do? What will the demons do?_

"If the demons will not listen to him, they will listen to me." Aziraphale raised his chin as he spoke, setting his shoulders and clenching his fists, and scanned the crowd to find Warlock once more. The demons' anticipation terrified him into acting excited, searching for a way to please them before whatever they wanted happened. "They've hurt him enough. They won't do so further."

Crawly chuckled, dark and rich and didn't ask about Heaven's rules.

The other children seemed to enjoy the show, while the gathered parents pretended to. Their success always ensured, the parties hosted by Thaddeus and Harriet Dowling were always sought after. The invitations, at least, even though no one really wanted to attend, but everyone needed to be seen there. In the past, keeping their cover ensured the demons never menaced the guests, but today they whispered and taunted, just barely on the better acceptable, waiting.

Until three o'clock came. And passed. 

_It's late_ , Crawly whispered. Aziraphale didn't check his watch.

The anticipation among the demons descended to confusion and fear, enough to make one of the performers stutter and another stumble. Several of the demons disappeared into the ground, and the lower ranking raced out to the lane, shouting for the dog as if it could get lost.

"No dog," Aizraphale whispered.

_No dog._

"Wrong boy."

_Wrong boy._

Late in understanding the reason for the dog's absence, the remaining six demons realized immediately how Hell would treat their failure. Six demons with every reason for human niceties cut away, faced with an eternity of Hell's torments instead of accolades, and surrounded by helpless humans. Their panicked hows turned to screams of rage.

The sprinklers across the entire property activated, raining over everyone in the open pavilion. Unable to gain a real supply of holy water, Aziraphale could still, somewhat, bless the water through the pipes, at least enough to steam and spark as it hit the demons. Enough to send them descending into the Earth, choosing to flee over destruction, and saving the humans, just moments before the spray ran regular water. The first miracle Aziraphale cast freely in years; perhaps he was a little rusty.

Excuses ready for the Dowlings, Aziraphale realized he needn't provide them, and left the sprinklers running as he crossed the lawn, headed for his cottage. For the first time in as long, the water politely refrained from hitting him. Even if it was the End of the World, he'd several books he wished to collect. And should leave a note for Warlock.

Not that any of it would matter this time next week.

 _Armageddon is days away and we've lost the Antichrist_ , Crawly said, equally dry though the droplets didn't avoid him, as he sauntered across the lawn with Aziraphale.

"I don't understand. How could we lose the Antichrist?"

~~~~~~~

On the other side of the page, three o'clock arrived and passed uneventfully. Attending as a welcome guest, Nanny Ashtoreth had said nothing about a dog to anyone, intending the surprise would encourage Warlock to dismiss it, and so no one missed it's arrival except her. Everyone else was quite taken with the hired magicians' performance and she excused herself, giving Harriet her apologies before checking with Hell that the dog had gotten off alright. Hell confirmed, she lied about spotting it, and flipped off the radio.

 _No dog._ Guardian angel acting as deceased husband (sometimes she could still 'hear' his voice), he sat in the seat next to her, more real than the Hellhound.

"No dog."

_Wrong boy._

"Wrong boy." She started the car. "Armageddon is days away and we've lost the Antichrist."

_I don't understand. How could we lose the Antichrist?_

**Thursday - Two Days to the End of the World**

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Aziraphale breathed deeply from the steam of his tea, chasing away his fatigue and headache. After pouring through all of his books and half the internet on Crawly’s computer yesterday and last night, not even a miracle could sooth away his pain and exhaustion. What a nightmare. None of his texts, or the digital sources he tracked down, hinted anything about a misplaced Anitchrist. They spoke of him in broad terms (or, in the case of the internet, intentionally fictitious terms; he read through several fan sites before realizing their canon wasn't biblical) of the world's destruction, not of Hell losing him.

Neither he nor Crawly knew how to find the Antichrist a second time. Their only hope, currently, was the demons dodged and lied convincingly enough that Hell hadn't realized the extent of their flop either. They would be even more desperate than he, and working against each other.

The shop bell's jingle pushed the headache from his thoughts. When he'd gone for rolls this morning, he must've forgotten to lock it, and who knew how he left the closed sign. The last thing he wanted was another threat to his books. Ready to annoy the costumers away, he set his shoulders, with a small frown and excuses ready on the tip of his tongue, set out to actually do something, only to plaster a smile on his face as he reached the front. Worse than costumers, among the humans browsing, Gabriel and Sandalphon stood there... just standing.

In his bookshop. On Earth once again when he'd absolutely no reason to be here and even less to bring something else. To just stand there. Gabriel couldn't have heard about the Antichrist yet, he knew the demons were better at dodging blame than that. He'd no reason to be here with backup.

"May I help you?" he asked, pushing down his panic as he raised a hand. Anything would - An appointment, of course, and a good enough reason to get the humans out and-

"I would like to purchase one of your material objects," Gabriel proclaimed, loud enough for the humans to notice him, and he hefted the overly large 'Household Management' tomb Aziraphale kept about just because he didn't care if humans touched it.

Sandalphon leaned closer. "Books."

"Books, yes." He smiled broadly at Sandalphon and, before Aziraphale could reply, continued: "Let us discuss my purchase in a private place. Because I am buying..."

Already nodding, Aziraphale opened his mouth to suggest a first edition of-

"Pornography," Sandalphon said. Aziraphale blinked at him, able to hear his snake's snicker even if he didn't dare imagine him when near other angels.

"Yes. My pornography!" Gabriel agreed, smiled even broader now and Aizraphale couldn't think of anything to say to that. Except, Gabriel raised his brows and gave him a look, so, apparently, now Aziraphale was supposed say something.

"Of- Of course," he tried to recover. "Gabriel. Sandalphon. Please... Come into. My back room." This could be a porno, all stilted acting and nonsense premise.

"We humans are extremely easily embarrassed," Sandalphon said, speaking to everyone in the shop rather than following Aziraphale's invitation, and for a wild moment Aziraphale thought he might mention sausages. "We must buy our pornography secretly."

Still beaming, and nodding in agreement, Gabriel finally lead the way past Aziraphale and Sandalphon followed. Regardless the comical play they inadvertently put on for the humans, being in closed space with Gabriel sent his nerves on edge and Sandalphon doubled the effect. Not merely his nerves overreacting either. When Sandalphon paused, forcing Aziraphale into the small space between them, and he stayed by the door, less keeping the humans out and more keeping Aziraphale in.

"Human being are so simple," Gabriel declared, voice filling up the space as he slammed the book against the desk. Aziraphale flinched, as much for himself as the book, which deserved to be treated better regardless. it's contents "And so easily fooled," he added with relish.

"Yes... Good job. You fooled them all," Aziraphale murmured. Any moment, he'd hear how he wasted the last decade on his own initiative, how Hell so easily fooled him with their lies. Focusing on his breathing, trying to be certain he didn't forget and stop, he clutched his hands before him and kept his smile in place.

"You remember Sandalphon?" Gabriel asked, pointing behind Aziraphale. Of course Aziraphale recognized Sandalphon! He just invited him, by name, into the backroom along with Gabriel in their ridiculous angelic porno!

Still, he turned as indicated, playing his part, and only half succeeded as he tried not to squirm. His smile suffered as he glanced between the two of them, Sandalphon smug and Gabriel expectant.

"Yes, ah, Sodom and Gomorrah... Great deal of smiting... Hard to forget." Should he be speaking to Sandalphon or Gabriel? Why had Gabriel brought Sandalphon? Gabriel had Sandalphon with him for ages whenever Aziraphale brought his reports to Heaven, why introduce him now? Why had Gabriel come at all? Wetting his lips, trying to pull his thoughts together and keep himself still. Unable to watch both, not without relying on angelic eyes and they would know, he settled his focus on Gabriel while Sandalphon hoovered behind him.

"Just came by to talk about the status of the Antichrist," Gabriel said, opening his hands, expecting a reply rather than starting to monologue.

"Why? What's wrong? I mean," he added, almost pulling himself together and convincing no one, "if something is wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, everything's going perfectly," Gabriel replied, overly satisfied. As he kept talking, Aziraphale kept replying, courteous and interested and without any idea what he, or Gabriel, actually said, and merely waiting for Gabriel to stop chatting at him and start critiquing him. 

"You can't have a war without War."

The inanity of the statement broke through Aziraphale's expectant, terrified haze. He turned and, once more, stared at the angel, and then Gabriel was congratulating Sandalphon for being cleaver. After he threw out a few more questions, shouted in a 'state whisper' another comment about pornography, he finally, finally took Sandalphon and left.

In the quiet of the backroom, Aziraphale waited for the bell to jingle again, marking their departure from the bookstore. For real for the first time since he saw them in the front, he truly exhaled. Another few more deep breaths then he picked up the House Management tomb and patted the cover in apology. More artful writing in this book than 'Can't have a war without War.' But the All Mighty placed Gabriel in charge of Heaven, and Sandalphon at his side, for a reason. It wasn't meant to make sense to him. Ineffable. All of it.

_An ineffable porno._

"No."

_Better than what you had going on when you were sandwiched between the pair of them._

Quiet intentionally, Aziraphale left the small backroom and lost himself in the familiar habit of herding the remaining costumers out. (Not as familiar as he expected. Several of them asked after him, mentioning how the bookstore had been closed for years now and worried about those Americans mocking him and his books. Though he assured them it was nothing and everything was well, he received several business cards. Among them a lawyer and another... well.)

Only as the last of them left did he realize why Gabriel descended to Earth. He didn't need to know about losing the Antichrist to know Aziraphale messed up; he knew Aziraphale messed up because the Antichrist named the dog. At some point, during the conversation he barely recalled, he thought Gabriel must've asked after the dog, but he'd not really heard him and clearly not responded how Gabriel wanted. Too distracted to even realize his failure had been noted, a failure on his own initiative either way, Gabriel didn't even need to know he spent a decade with the wrong child.

"Tea," he murmured, double checking the lock and sign were in place then retreating to the small kitchen. Crawly already lounged at the table, leaning far enough back in the chair he should slide out.

_What does he think a bookshop sells? Even he must've heard of the Good Book at some point, maybe figure a 'good' kind implies 'bad' kinds, or 'neutral' kinds, or just other kinds. Really sounded like they meant to go next door instead._

"Material objects are not of his concern." Tapping the lever, he watched the electric kettle's light blink on and started at it for too long, wringing his hands, before fetching the pot and his cup.

_What 'bout a half-human, half-demon eleven year-old object? That his concern?_

"Stop being snide. A child is not an object."

_Be easier to find a cursed object than the Antichrist. None of the demons watching Warlock knew. If they couldn't tell that, the real kid must be hidden from them as well as you._

"How did they misplace a child?" he demanded of his kettle. It boiled. With an exasperated sigh at himself, he apologized to before pouring the water. Without waiting for the tea to steep either, he poured fresh brewed tea into his cup a moment later and sat heavily at the small table. "How does one misplace an Ambassador's child? I heard Harriet complain abut the Tadfield Airbase and early labor often enough it's easy to see how they 'misplaced' her to get her where they wanted her. How did they misplace the child after that?"

 _Two children._ Practically throwing himself forward, he crossed his arms to land them on the table and lean in. _What happened to the extra kid? The one she gave birth to? Maybe they swapped him in then swapped him back out? Double swap? Maybe she got her kid by accident._

"Not Warlock," Aziraphale replied reflexively, staring into his tea. "He isn't theirs by - Wait. What if you're right? What if they did swap twice, but with different babies? Ineffable..." Tapping the table, he brought the lost pieces together. "It's a birthing hospital, they must deliver other babies. Harriet described it as insufferably tiny, however they must be able to handle more than a single mother at a time. What if another mother introduced a another baby. Two mothers, three babies. They're small enough, they likely have only so many weighing rooms or... bathing rooms? Wherever they take care of the newborns. What if they mixed them up, and gave the Dowlings the other couple's baby and the other couple received the Antichrist instead?"

_Still missing a kid. What happened to Thad Jr.?_

"Evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction," Aziraphale continued, sitting straighter. "No matter how well-planned, no matter how foolproof an evil plan, no matter how apparently successful it may seem upon the way, in the end it will founder upon the rocks of iniquity and vanish."

Crawly raised his brows. _So, basically, an ordinary cock-up?_

"It's ineffable."

_But it hasn't foundered yet, has it? The demons messed up, sure, but the Antichrist named his Hellhound._

Aziraphale sipped his tea and refused to let Crawly's critiques dissuade him. "It's ineffable. The hospital will have records, hospitals always have records. We know his age, birthday and the days Harriet was admitted; the other mother must overlap. We'll go through the hospital files."

_And then what?_

"And then we find him."

_And then what?_

Aziraphale sipped his tea. All his plans ended yesterday with Warlock refusing the Hellhound. The real Antichrist had named the hound. With Armageddon queued, could he stop it?

"I'll prep a tin for the road," he said instead. In person, no one ever refused his requests, and they'd forget about him, allowing him to work through the night if necessary. Phones could be tricky, humans recalling they shouldn't share information with him when they set it down, and they may not be equipped to find what he wanted. He would decide the next step once he found the child.


	3. Finding the Antichrist

**(Still Thursday)**

Though he did not enjoy it, few personal libraries selling the books he wished to purchase and any number of the assignments Heaven fostered on him, required he, ultimately, own his own personal car. It also relieved him of the pressure of transporting large boxes of books on a train and bus when he visited estates sales that, failing to properly price their collections, sold the deceased's books in bulk boxes. (More than once, he gained a prized item by simply outliving the previous owner, or their children and grandchild, and gaining the book once refused him.) As well, he found arriving in his own vehicle raised his status in many human's eyes, though given appearance, still regulated him to the 'eccentric collector' more interested in his books than appearance. Not an unfair assessment.

Of course, he tried avoiding the 'fad' of cars as long as he could, and really could easily avoid the necessity while in London, but eventually he gave in to Crawly's complaints. When finally buying one of the infernal machines, he purchased one lightly used, followed all his mechanic's recommendations (though he never needed to add gas and the oil was always fine), and otherwise ignored it. Every decade, he exchanged it for a new old car.

 _You're an angel,_ Crawly complained, as he always did while trailing after Aziraphale through the carpark. Though meant for short term parking, it was easily reachable from the bookshop and no one minded Aziraphale's car in the far back space. _You're immortal. You could've gotten a car decades back and still be driving it. A hundred years old and still like new. It wouldn't even dent your account if you bought one of the newest ones, with every comfort imaginable!_ He gestured at several monstrosities as they passed them and then at Aziraphale's as they finally reached it. _Why this?_

"It's a perfectly serviceable automobile and suits me just fine." And defiantly unremarkable, tan outside, the seats his favorite tartan, an average size and easily forgotten, neither so cheap it engendered mockery nor so expensive it attracted attention. A smoothly running antique would generate attention, far too many people wanting to talk to him about it when most of the time he put the keys in a box in his bookshop once he purchased it to ensure he could find them when he sold it. (It was quite embarrassing the first time he showed up without keys and the mechanic thought he dropped them in the car or the parking lot and they needed to spend an hour looking before Aziraphale realized he best miracle them.) The car ran when he needed it, and he did do what they advised him, so it was certain it was fine. 

"An old car wouldn't suit you regardless," he said as the doors unlocked themselves. "You like the newest thing and I'm not bothering with a new purchase every year."

_An old car would suit you perfectly. Half the humans would think it matched your jacket._

"My jacket!" He huffed as he yanked the car open. "My jacket is older and in better condition than any car on the road - or in a museum! Now get in or I'll leave you here."

 _Wouldn't stop me._ But he climbed in. The seat pushed all the way back for his comfort, he stretched his legs and somehow managed to make a car seat look comfortable. "What about the fire?"

"They'll have rebuilt it by now." Once he set his thermos in the cup holder and arranged the map between them, they could start the most annoying apart of their journey. Not that he blamed the car, it did its best, but it was a car and followed the rules a car must. Aziraphale wouldn't have it cheating on his account. "Humans are forever rebuilding. Doubtlessly, the Dowlings needed to reference Warlock's birth certificate during one of their overseas trips.''

"Or the demons waved away any necessities," Crawly said, interlocking his fingers as he stretched his arms. "They're not ones for paperwork except as punishment. Wouldn't bother with human requirements."

"We'll discover the truth of it when we arrive," Aziraphale promised, confident now that he'd an achievable goal to focus on. Perhaps just a for a few hours, but this was far less ambiguous than the past decade of trying to influence a child in a demonic household while playing gardener. Drive to Tadfield, search the records, find the Antichrist. Finally, a simple task.

"We won't get there until after Armageddon!" Crawly burst as the car stopped, behind several others, waiting to turn left. "This is an emergency, Aziraphale! Drive faster! Magic the cars out of the way!"

"Amazingly, that's the same sentiment you have when we're not staring down Armageddon," Aziraphale observed, glancing at the imaginary demon from the corner of his eyes. "I am going the speed limit, which is quite fast enough for central London."

"You're being passed by a-"

He turned on the radio, only to hear a report about strange weather. Flipping through the stations proved equally unsatisfactory, too many of them talking instead of playing music (and none of them saying anything interesting) and the music he found uninterested him (the way they piled completely different styles into 'classical' was nearly criminal). Instead, he switched to the tape player and the only tape he owned. It had come inside the deck the first time he bought a car with a tape player and, when he tried to return it, the salesmen told him to keep it. Yet, whenever he sold a car, they always found it and returned it to him. Unaware tapes could wear out or that even most used cars came with a CD player rather than tape player, he now made certain to keep it with him.

Often unimpressed with the radio, he listened to the tape far more frequently than he realized and he rather enjoyed listening to Freddie so he never thought to purchase a different tape. Best of all, Crawly always relaxed and listened to The Best of Queen with a vague smile on his face, sparing Aziraphale further complaints about his responsible driving habits.

Unfortunately, they had little trouble finding the hospital. Following the winding roads through the trees, they quickly discovered the fire trucks and, trailing behind them, Aziraphale felt his dread take root. Though he checked the map several times, watching the billowing smoke and recalling the demons send off, he realized he might be late to his conclusion.

Sometime within the past eleven years, they must've rebuilt the hospital because a decade-old already-burnt husk wouldn't burn substantially enough for the black smoke pouring from the windows. Numerous cars parked within as well, their frames twisted and cracked, tires melted, windows absent and only distorted shadows remaining of the interiors. Had it been abandoned the past decade, there likely would be a few more trees large enough to still smolder, while at this point he couldn't tell if any ever foliage surrounded the property.

As the firefighters rushed forward, they arriving only just before Aziraphale, he whispered a prayer for them and the surrounding area. Only days left to live, they deserved to enjoy as much of it as possible. Even if the grounds hadn't been consecrated to the Enemy, the time for blessing the building already passed. Not even a husk would remain this time, and the demonic scent couldn't be ignored.

 _Was Beryl burned at the stack, you think?_ Crawly sat on the still warm hood of the car, taking it in without concern. _Or is that unique to this specific sect? Just this building?_

With a sigh at his companion's humor, Aziraphale stepped aside to speak to one of the shocked Londoners. Even covered in soot and sweat, and wearing fatigues and protective gear, neither he nor his small group belonged in Tadfield. They belonged in a birthing hospital even less.

"Company training," the man whispered back, words lifeless and eyes, standing out against his too white skin beneath the ash, never leaving the fire. "Build leadership. With paint guns and... Nigel is still in there."

 _No, he really isn't. No one is in there anymore._ Even the firefighters had backed away.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, hoping to prompt the man and glad no one else heard Crawly. Though he occasionally chastised himself for his imaginary demons replies, and what they might say about himself, he gave that up the first thousand years. Instead, he felt Crawly provided a healthy way to deal with his more morbid observations, compared to denying them, and appreciated when he surprised himself with Crawly's observations. He was not surprised this time.

"He's a prick, the whole thing was his idea. I never liked him."

"Oh." Then Crawly's response was likely more appropriate than he realized. "I heard it was an old hospital?"

"Old manor house. Got history, Nigel said." He stopped talking once more and Aziraphale stepped away, his questions answered well enough. Humans did rebuild, but not always the same ones. Someone else must've bought the birthing hospital, much as the nuns had once bought the manor house, and anything of the previous owners had been lost. With the last fire so close to the births, the county might not even have accurate records of the Antichrist's "arrival," the demons' waving away any issues Warlock must've had while the parents raising the real Antichrist likely dealt with the layers of bureaucracy to get whatever documents they needed and they'd be misfiled wherever Aziraphale might look for them next.

Crawly was right, he should've driven faster, he might've arrived in time to-

 _Get caught by the demons? While trying to save a bunch of humans not worth your discarded nail clippings, who'll die in another couple days anyway?_ Sauntering over as he spoke, Crawly jabbed a finger at the shocked Londoner and rolled his eyes, then nodded to the building still gushing smoke. _If you showed up before that was ablaze, they'd think you nabbed the Antichrist as a baby and try to get his location out of you. You got lucky with that stunt at the Dowlings and you know it, all the big kids already left before the Holy Water sprinkler went off. There's no way whoever was in charge here, however unrelated to Beryl, wasn't grateful for that fire to kill them. These demons thought they were about to sit at the right hand of their Savior and now they've got days - hours - to find him before their bosses come after them. You gotta be careful, Aziraphale._

"A few of them must be nearby," Aziraphale spoke softly, his voice too low for the humans to hear beneath the roar of the fire as he stepped back and scanned the crowd. "Those with rank will be gone if there's nothing left here, but some some of the incidental ones will want to watch it burn." He couldn't do anything for the dead, but he could ensure the living survived a little bitter for a little longer and he'd allowed those demons to the flee the party rather than returning them to Hell.

 _Not your fault_ , Crawly grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets as he trailed after Aziraphale. Such reassurance always surprised Aziraphale. It only slipped out occasionally, normally when he felt at his worse, and yet for all he wanted to hear the words, he knew them to be wrong. He should have done better, realized earlier how normal Warlock acted or taken closer note of the demons' circular logic; he should have followed up years ago and discovered the truth, not trusted the demons to know what they were doing. That his imaginary friend should so blatantly contradict him always felt odd, a foreign though in his mind, and yet he kept his own certainty quiet or else Crawly would argue it. They hadn't time for that right now.

"You are in my way." The hint of controlled panic in the young woman's voice drew Aziraphale's attention, and so Crawly's. Walking alongside her bike as she circled the crowd watching the fire, dressed in an old-fashion black dress, she faced three familiar faces who smirked at her. "Step aside."

"Just wanna chat," one said, leaning forward enough to land a hand on the front tire and leer. "Come on, witchy, just a couple questions."

_Pissing of the local witch? Never a good idea, that._

"She's isn't local," Aziraphale said, then braced his shoulders and stepped forward. Though the demons looked no difference from when they served the Dowling's, he'd worn a disguise as Francis the Gardner. At the time, he'd been concerned a demon that previously visited Earth might recognize him, and now he appreciated his discretion even more.

_Discretion? Deception._

"The lady has asked you to leave her be." Hands clasped before him, he offered everyone a polite smile as he intervened. Two of the demons turned their glowers on him, the fear buried in their eyes for the coming days, while their leader, still leaning on the bike, remained focused on the witch.

"Get lost, grandpa," she said. "You've been reading too much Dickens."

"The witch has asked you to move, rather politely," Aziraphale repeated, his voice as pleasant as his smile. The other two demons started edging further away, neither wanting to be the first to run, and he'd the witch's attention now as well. "I won't be so polite if I must repeat myself a third time."

The lead demon finally drew herself up, intending to glower down at him as she told him off, and, once she focused on him, promptly tumbled in the opposite direction. Stuttering, never managing a full word, she scrambled backwards to her feet then dashed in the opposite direction, the other two racing after.

_Show off._

For a moment, the witch's eyes flicked toward the imaginary demon, rather than staying on the, very real though disguised, angel. "Those were demons."

"Yes, they are," he agreed with his best reassuringly pleasant smile. Nearly the same he used on the demons, except for his eyes. "I'm really very sorry they troubled you." He should have arrived earlier.

 _Aziraphale,_ _stop it._

"Those demons are scared of you," she said, her pause exactly long enough for Crawly's comment. "Why?"

"We all have our hobbies," he said, opening his hands. After six thousand years, he could hide his nature even from a perceptive witch, especially one so young. It complicated things when they discovered the truth, and he'd rather not deal with such issues today.

_Like we've a lot of days left._

"As time allows," she mumbled, glancing over his shoulders again, even right at Crawly though her eyes didn't stay on him. "This isn't right."

"A fire of this magnitude rarely is," he agreed, looking back to the still billowing smoke. "I don't suppose you know anything about the building? What it was?" A local witch would know, both about the Satanic nuns and any children born within, but she was clearly visiting.

"That? No, it's just an old house converted into something more profitable. I don't mean _that_ ," she added, gaze still fixed on Aziraphale. "I mean something else, something - something's missing."

_The Antichrist?_

"No, something... someone should be here, but not right now... you and..." Still studying him, staring in a way that'd be rude for a human and was even more unsettling from a witch, she must be mumbling to herself. After all, she couldn't hear Crawly, he never actually spoke aloud. "Someone's missing."

_Exactly. The Antichrist._

"Perhaps you mean the air in your tire?" Aziraphale asked, unable to hush Crawly by thinking at him. His own imaginary friend would prattle on endlessly, even when he shouldn't be doing so anywhere near a witch. "I fear the demon put a hole in it when she touched it." Equally able to fix it with a touch, or just a nod, at any time, Aziraphale couldn't risk revealing anything to her.

"Oh!" The witch lifted the bike's front by the handle bars and glared at the lopsided tire. "I have a tire kit and pump at the cottage... but this isn't suppose to happen."

_It always happens when you leave the kit at home._

"Unfortunately, demons cause trouble at the worst of times."

"No, you don't understand. They aren't what the bread knife is for."

"Indeed not," Aziraphale agreed. The demons must've rattled her more than he realized. While clearly perceptive, she was also a young and he'd no idea what they said to her before his intervened. "Bread knives work far better on breads than demons. Would you like a ride home?" Best to get her somewhere safe if she was going to break apart.

_The world is about to end! Nowhere is safe._

"Well, I... What about the bike? I can't leave it here."

_She's right, you don't have a bike rack. She can take care of herself and we-_

"You can put it on the bike rack," he said, smiling as Crawly stuttered. "I've never used it, but I'm certain we can attach the velocipede."

 _Oh! For the love of-_ With a dramatic turn, starting to gesture wildly, he yanked his hands back and glowered instead. _You won't change the car when I ask, but for some random witch? Sure! Why not? Add a bike rack!_

"I..." She glanced at him, then past him and then at the smoke and sighed. "It's not that far, just on the edge of the village. But to walk it..."

"Of course, think nothing of it. I can't complete the errand I came for regardless."

 _Your errand?_ Crawly grumbled, nattering on while Aziraphale lead the young witch to his car. _Nothing important, just trying to find the boy who'll end the world in a couple days. Even if the satanic nuns loaned their hospital out for leadership practice every fourth Tuesday of the month, even if any of their records survived the last fire, nothing survived this one. Cabinets just smoldering remains holding useless remains of charred bits of paper. Any computers are toxic bubbles of plastic and metal. The whole reason for coming here has gone up in big black smoky clouds. If you're really lucky, they might've had cloud storage, but when have we been lucky lately? You don't have an errand here anymore, there isn't anything here to help us. I'm not even here, am I? Just keep ignoring me, and be all polite with the human. It's not like you should be trying to come up with another plan instead of popping around Tadfield. Let her walk! Last chance to really value the great outdoors, last chance to see it all! She's young enough._

As they would spend the evening searching for any accounts that may have survived both fires, Aziraphale really didn't need to reply to Crawly's mood. He was only, really, upset because giving the witch a ride would mean she'd sit in the front and thus Crawly would be stuck in the back. Fortunately, the witch took a moment to place her things, which had been in the basket, into the back seat, giving Aziraphale time to miracle the bike into place. He heard Crawly groan when she opened the front door and, though he threatened to remain behind, he slunk into the back while Aziraphale took his own seat.

"Do you always carry a bread knife?" he asked, making conversation in the silence after she gave directions. With Crawly's snide comments from the back, it would be a long ride without an audible conversation.

"It might come in handy," she said, pulling the seat forward then pressing her lips together, as if daring him to comment on it. Crawly had said enough already on the matter of the seat's placement.

"There must be a number of delicious bakeries about," he agreed instead. No good deed goes unpunished, and now he'd two prickly passengers in his car. "Never know when you may need it." As she didn't reply, if any reply would make better sense, he decided Crawly's running commentary on the passing scenery not so bad after all.

In front of a nice little cottage, on the edge of town as she'd said, he removed (still without touching it) the bike while she collected her things, then wished her a good afternoon. His seat reclaimed and adjusted, Crawly squirmed in it as if the few minutes she spent sitting in it changed it at all.

"Do you feel that?" Aziraphale asked, sitting up and glancing out the side windows, nearly stopping entirely. Concentrating on the directions, and then the fire trucks and smoke, he missed it on the way in but, without distractions, couldn't mistake it now. Like fresh braked bread or pie, or even the onion and garlic as one began cooking, it infused the whole area, stronger and warmer as he circled back around the village. "It's love, all the way through here."

"Love?" Crawly stretched his legs long and scrunched his nose. "If you say so. Bunch of happy villagers? Someone really likes all the trees?"

"It's too strong for that," he said, frowning at the demon a moment then keeping his attention on the road. Another time, he might try to find the source but, in some ways, Crawly was right and they'd lost most of the day already. "It's too strong for that, too focused and unique. It's something more; I'm not entirely sure it's human."

"The Antichrist?"

"The _Antichrist_?" Aziraphale didn't even bother frowning at him. "I sense love and you suggest the Antichrist?"

"You said you're not sure it's human!" He flung his hands about then returned to sulking. "What else is there? Not the animals and not the demons, that's for sure. You'd know if it was you, you love 'idyllic' little villages to visit, but you live in London for a reason. What else is there?"

"If I knew, I would not have said 'something,' would I?"

"Not going to find the something? Maybe you can gift it a lift somewhere. Or did you help the witch just to do something 'good' while out here?"

"I helped her because it is the Right thing to do, and because those demons on the lose are my responsibility." The further they drove, the fainter the flashes of love. By the time he noticed, he probably passed the strongest, which implied something protected the area. Perhaps it was why the Satanists lost the Antichrist. And he really should find its source. But, no, it must be newer or the demons wouldn't have been able to establish a residence here. Even if not demons, the Satanist's provided them a base and anything protecting the area would have chased them out. This must be younger than even the Antichrist, hardly started and it would end in a few days as well.

"A greater effort on my part as Warlock's birthday party would have stopped them from antagonizing her, and I won't be there to intervene next time. Which is no different than the last six thousand years, is it?" he pressed, staring down the stretch of the road. "I have allowed Hell's minions to trespass on the world I am charged in defending. Think of the humans who would have been spared had I intervened more. If I had done more, Hell would not yet dare release the Antichrist into the world, and this precious place would endear into next week."

"You've done what Heaven allowed," Crawly said, practical but gentle, and pressed on before Aziraphale could object to the paltry orders Heaven ever provided. "You, Aziraphale, kept the worst of the demons from sticking around. You went after the bad and let the not-so bad fester, because they were better than the alternative. You're just one angel, you couldn't fight them. If you even tried, you'd just start the fall out from Armageddon that much faster."

"I should've done more." Tapping the wheel, he again searched the road and hedges, seeing nothing inspirational. All of it planned and kept in check, exactly like and so unlike the humans. "Regardless my spiritual limitations, I should be able to - to speak to Gabriel. Not this useless sniveling Six thousand years, I should know what to say to make him understand." He huffed. "There shouldn't be an Armageddon! Any battlefield on the Earth is a waste, the world is too valuable to end."

"Don't know if that's something anyone can do," Crawly said, his apology soft for Aziraphale. Just before Aziraphale insisted on his failures, certain Uriel and Micheal never struggled so badly when making their points, Crawly's words sparked another thought.

"But what an angel can't do, a human can!" He banged the wheel, grinning in delight and, though baffled, Crawly smiled back. "Of course! I can't find the Antichrist, but a human could! Humans have been finding things hidden from Heaven and Hell, including other humans, since the beginning of time. One of them can find him!"

"Who? You calling a PI?"

"The Witchfinder Army," he replied, beaming and even humming as he wiggled. This, this would finally work. Human always managed the impossible.

"Shadwell?" Raising his brows, Crawly glanced out the window. "Thought you paid them just to add it to your report. Didn't think they actually did anything. The 'Army' probably gets together for drinks once a month and historical field trips twice a year. Don't exactly hear about them defeating witches on the evening news." Neither of them watched the evening news as Aziraphale refused to buy a TV regardless Crawly's nagging.

"That's exactly it, isn't it? No witches. ... Well, but for-" But that young witch hadn't been worried about the demons, and they'd only two days. He'd just need to be certain Shadwell's men focused on a young boy, not a young woman. "The point being, they're human. I will point them to Tadfield and they will figure out the rest. Unless you have a better idea?" he added, raising a brow as he regarded the demon. "One better idea?"

"Naw! What? Me? Complain about your idea? Never. Two days to find the Destroyer of Worlds? I'm sure Shadwell's army is up for it. Finally get a return on your investment."

Rather than roll his eyes, Aziraphale turned the tape on.

After parking the car, while Crawly pointed out other cars he found more admirable, Aziraphale reached into the back seat for the otherwise forgotten tin of biscuits, intending to munch on them on the short walk to the bookshop. Instead, just next to them and partially hidden by the seat in front of it, he spotted a book. Not one of his, as he knew them all by sight and never left any in the car. It would be the witches then, missed when she collected her things. Wondering if it'd be worth the bother of returning it at this point, he picked it up and read the cover.

The drive was not pointless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the other side of the page, Crowley also visited Tadfield Manor, which had not been set ablaze a second time. While looking for her (or anyone able to answer questions rather than shot paint at him), a certain imaginary angel sighed heavily at his prank with the guns, even indulging in a short lecture over the demon's actions as the demon kicked doors open. The scolding broke off at the sight of the human, familiar even when not in a wimple. Though she'd never know how grateful she should be that Crowley questioned her instead of another team of demons, she still recalled nothing helpful of that night and the records remained destroyed in Hastur's fire. Before the police stormed upstairs, Crowley slunk off, scowling at everything, and the weaponry returned to paintball guns as he stepped off the property, the joke failing to amuse any longer.

Without anyone to distract him with talk of love, he never hit - or was hit by - a witch. Able to drive 90 miles an hour in London, he hardly even noticed the bike. Reaching his flat, he'd no idea what to do next, too distracted by what Hell would do.

**Saturday - The Last Day of the World**

Wandering the park, Aziraphale searched for his contact. This time, he requested the meeting and braced himself for Gabriel walking into his shop again (possible with Sandalphon but, at least, no humans about this time) and instead was directed to the park. They hadn't told him who would arrive either, which made sense, as everyone upstairs would have more important things to do than chat with him, but he really would succeed this time. Only, depending on who they sent, he would need to request an appointment to speak with Gabriel, and soon. They had run out of time.

Spying a golden 'statue' with wings and a halo, he approached. It would be terribly obvious of them, except the angel might find it easiest. Instead, as he realized his mistake, Gabriel jogged past wearing lavender sweats. Jogged! Anything but relieved, he raised a hand to stop him, but Gabriel never hesitated, and Aziraphale had to run after him.

"It's me," he spoke quickly. Clearly, the Archangel just hadn't noticed him and was circling the park in order to find him. He would have other places to be, and that he took any time out of his schedule at all-

"I know it's you, Aziraphale." He never glanced at him.

"Yes." Clearly not then. Still half jogging and half running, rushing to keep pace, he tried to catch his thoughts back. He needed to say this right. "Look... We have to get a word upstairs, to- to the Big Boss. ... There are prophecies."

"And what's in human prophecies that matters to us?"

"The kraken wakes and rises form the sea floor. So does Atlantis." His list provided by Agnes and only recently deciphered, he mentally reviewed it, trying for something to interest Gabriel. Peering up at face, still struggling to keep up, he searched for a glimmer of concern. "And the rain forests return. That's just for starters! Armageddon is coming. And I'm, fairly, certain it starts today. Just after teatime."

"Exactly. Right on schedule." For the first time, he looked down at him, his frown prominent. That frown. "I really don't see what the problem is."

"It's just-" This wasn't working. "Look, it's- Will you... please slow down? Just a minute?" He could hardly think like this, and definitely couldn't come up with the right words.

Heaving a sigh at the inconvenience, Gabriel finally stopped. Bending down, hands on his knees, Aziraphale tried to catch the breath he shouldn't need.

"Well?" The prompt immediate, Aziraphale sucked in air and straightened - but seeing Gabriel's impatience, his heart fell instead of rising.

"I just..." He failed. Again. The would would end. "I just thought there was something we could do."

"There is!" Gabriel said, his big grin back and he seemed to mean it for once. "We can fight! And we can win!"

"But there doesn't have to be a war."

"Of course there does! Otherwise, how could we win it? Wrap everything you have to wrap up down here and report back to active service. And..." he gave Aziraphale a once over, his mouth twisted in disapproval, "lose the gut. You're a lean, mean fighting machine!" Miming punches to Aziraphale's gut, he leaned back and opened his hands, smile back in place. "What are you?"

"I'm..." He tried, he really did, and it never mattered. Gabriel flashed him that winning smile and started jogging without waiting for him to finish. "I'm soft." A soft failure. Not only had he failed, he likely made it worse. Active service? Fighting machine? All the implications in those words would be horrid.

A hand tapped his shoulder and he jumped.

"Nearly forgot," Gabriel said, neither halfway across the park nor back in Heaven already. Hand pressed against his chest, Aziraphale could only stare at him. "According to our records, you were issued a flaming sword. You haven't lost it, have you?"

"What?" he asked, not lying if he phrased it as a question. "Like I'm going to just give it away or something?" Something like what happened six millennia ago? Handing it to Adam? Never trying to find it again? Something like that?

Beaming at him, Gabriel clapped his shoulder hard enough to stagger him and jogged off a second time. Before he could pop back again, Aziraphale started the walk home. Thoughts circling, jumping between implications, conclusions and last efforts, by the time he entered the shop, he settled on the only optional left. This would work, this would have to work. They could still stop all of it.

In the center of his shop, he cleaned the circular rug then pulled it back.

"Taking the backdoor upstairs?" Crawly asked, leaning against one of the shelves. None of the shelves would survive, nor the books they housed, nothing in the shop or the shop itself. Not London at all. Honestly, he couldn't be certain if Crawly would survive even if Aziraphale did. When only Heaven existed, he didn't think he could have an imaginary friend, let alone an imaginary demon. Surrounded by other angels, an eternity of loneliness even inside his own head.

"No. Decidedly not." Lips pressed together, he reviewed the circles and writing. He couldn't simply take his place among the ranks and pretend this was Right. There had to be a way to stop it.

"We could run, Aziraphale," Crawly whispered, edging closer and kneeling across the circle. "Off to the stars! Whichever side wins, they'd never find us. Wouldn't matter what's real and what's not up there, just us. Nobody will notice us."

Trying to check the white lines yet no longer seeing them, he could imagine it. Heaven would write him off, forgetting him and his reports once again, and they'd have all that room to just be themselves. Raising his face to Crawly, he saw the hope and fear written so clearly in his yellow eyes, and he didn't see it, in the space where Crawly wasn't. If only Aziraphale, it wouldn't matter, he could see what he liked. If only Aziraphale, he wouldn't see the bookshelves either. No more old books, no more bookshops. No fascinating little restaurants where they knew his name, no Albert Hall or Glyndebourne. No first class composers. All of Crawly's arguments, when he first heard of the Antichrist, still held true.

It'd be just Aziraphale, alone in a better way, but still alone.

"You're being ridiculous." Standing, he brushed his knees and turned away to gather the candles. "I'm quite sure that if I can just reach the right people, I can sort out. There doesn't have to be a war." The only way to win was not to fight.

"There aren't any right people!" Crawly launched himself upward, throwing his hands into the air. "There's just God, moving in mysterious ways, and _not talking to anyone!_ "

"And that's why," Aziraphale said as he set the candles around the circle, "I'm going to have a word with the Almighty and then the Almighty will fix it." He smiled at his circle then fetched some incense as well. Though not necessary, it smelled nice.

"That's... That won't happen. That won't... How can- ...you be so stupid? You can hardly get a word in with an Archangel, who won't acknowledge a book, and you think you can get the Almighty to fix something?"

The demon wasn't wrong, saying aloud what Aziraphale wouldn't admit. No, not saying anything aloud. Crawly never spoke aloud; he couldn't. The only being who would put up with Aziraphale wasn't real. If he failed, if he truly finally failed past any recovery, no one would miss him. When he snapped, the candles and incense lit.

"You are my own doubts," he said, shoulders set as he concentrated on the circle. "If I cannot accomplish anything else, I must accomplish this. I cannot fail again, not for the sake of all the creatures on Earth that do exist."

"I exist! I'm right here! Six thousand years, and I've never been far from you! I exist because you exist, Aziraphale." He stopped searching the bookstore for a better way to explain it, but all he would say would simply rephrase sentiments from Aziraphale's own mind. Not that running off to the stars was ever something he considered, though there was little he hadn't heard elsewhere.

"Look, listen," Crawly continued, gesturing again, reaching toward Aziraphale. "The problem is you're stuck talking to angels who, even with six thousand years of knowing you, never realized how wonderful you are. They've never listened to anyone but themselves. You won't win through them; you can't stop this by begging them! You're so much smarter than them. You can find another way."

"The Wrong way?" he asked. He originally imagined Crawly as an advisory to practice his arguments against, and since then clearly had grown too comfortable with demonic allowances. "Heaven's way is the Right way. I only need to explain the suffering and death this War will bring and they will understand it isn't necessary. I'm an angel, I am a Principality assigned to Earth. I must do this the Right way to protect them, not your way. Not Hell's way. I'm going to activate the circle, you must leave."

"Not my way, _your_ way. You-"

"No." A single word with all the resolve he had left. "I never should have depended on you. We're not friends. Not Any More. It's Over."

There was no reply, there had never been anyone to reply. He had not lost a friend, even if he felt something inside him tear, because he never had a friend. Aziraphale stood alone in his bookshop before a circle, ready to call God and repeat what he tried to tell Gabriel of avoiding Earth's destruction.

Ignoring the knock at the door, he began to chant.

Ultimately, unfortunately, Crawly was right. Not that Aziraphale spoke to God Herself, but Metatron was clear enough. Even worse, he stepped into the circle trying to protect Shadwell, and discorporated his body as he ascended to Heaven. (Not the absolutely worse, as it meant he couldn't test if Crawly would answer him and risk confirming he lost his own friend, imaginary or not.)

~~~~~~~~~

On the other side of the page, the thinnest distance away, Crowley avoided Hell's attention with a well placed bucket of Holy Water and an old answering machine. Escaping to his Bentley, he already had a destination and no reason not to risk everything to reach it. Even if he'd no idea what to do about the Antichrist and the End of the World, that's where it'd start - the start of the end - and he'd nothing left to save by avoiding it. He'd be there.

Even with his imagination, he couldn't believe an angel would ride with him, not through the fire he created of the M20. He drove alone to Tadfield as the Bentley burned around him.


	4. Tadfield

**Tadfield, the End of the World**

Possessing Madam Tracy, with her permission, Aziraphale arrived at the airbase with Shadwell and his ridiculous gun in tow only just before the Antichrist and his friends speed through the gate. Still thinking his finger was a weapon, Shadwell was no help with the guard, nor those who arrived as the alarms blared. With the world about to end, Aziraphale sent them all elsewhere. If lucky, they would need to deal with getting back. If unlucky, it wouldn't matter where they were at.

Except Shadwell hesitated, ready to doom them all to the unlucky. "...a wee bairn... you can't just-"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake! Give me that!" One 'wee bairn' lost to save all the other bairns but, though he grabbed the gun from Shadwell, Madam Tracy intervened before he could aim.

"You can't just kill children," she scolded then softened as his desperation swept through her. "Perhaps we should wait a bit."

"There is no more time." All that time he wasted, all his failures, losing the Antichrist, trying to to convince Heaven to go after him once he found him, when he could've gone after the Antichrist. He hadn't any more options. "We can't wait!"

"No!" Regaining control of her own body, she jerked the gun away again and it went off as they struggled.

The gun pointed upward. The Antichrist still lived. The world would still end. He had failed completely.

"I... I'm sorry," Madam Tracy said, almost a truth. Sorry that she allowed Aziraphale to believe he could succeed, or perhaps sorry for ensuring his failure, but not sorry the boy still lived. "I couldn't let you do it." She didn't believe he could live with himself had they shot the boy, which was entirely irrelevant as none of them would be living at all now.

"Why did you do that?" the Antichrist asked, looking entirely like a normal boy. Not unlike Warlock or the children at his party. The dog at his side must be the Hellhound, despite his small size and friendly appearance.

"Well, dear," Madam Tracy began, uncertain herself but Aziraphale had withdrawn. He'd messed up enough already; he never should've intervened.

"Excuse me," the boy said, far politer than Warlock ever managed, "why are you two people?"

Too far out of her depth, she opened then closed her mouth, while Aziraphale was too weary to say anything.

"It's not right. You should go back to being two separate people."

A tug and a pull, then Aziraphale couldn't fade away, instead standing next to Madam Tracy. Padding his body, still soft and still a failure, he paused then tugged his still worn vest and wiggled, and almost smiled. Whatever else, entirely himself once more.

"That made me all tingly," Madam Tracey said, with a wiggle of a her own and hint of suggestion in her voice. But then she glanced to Aziraphale and, seeing him, frowned and hurried to Shadwell's side. Entirely himself indeed.

"No, it's still not right." The Antichrist frowned at Aziraphale, studying him as if searching for something more. Knowing he'd disappoint the boy as he disappointed everyone else, he waited for his judgment. "There can't be only an angel. Nor only a demon," he words echoed oddly at the second sentence, directed somewhere else, a thin distance away yet somewhere else entirely. "You're a pair, it's not right you being separated like this. You need to be on the same page - on the same side of the page."

The world looked off a moment, a piece of paper held up to the light to see both sides at once. When it passed, a tall, dark-haired demon stood just to Aziraphale's left, his clothes all black but for the red collar of his jacket, all of him covered in suit and ash and reeking of burnt rubber and smoldering metal.

"Crowley?" He knew him. In the instant he appeared, Aziraphale remembered their last six thousand years, their odd dance around Heaven and Hell's attention, from the Garden of Eden to the gazebo in the park, all rolled together in an instant of knowledge. More than that, every human they encountered would 'know' they both tread the world at the same time, the Antichrist adjusting reality just like the demons claimed Warlock had, leaving no one the wiser. Except himself and - and Crowley. Even Heaven, so caught up in the approaching War and always so forgetful of Aziraphale anyway, would recall this new reality next time they considered him. Hell would be no different.

"Aziraphale?" Testing the name on his tongue, the demon started at him in equal bafflement. Though everyone would recall him saying it innumerable times, this would be the first time he spoke it. And he blinked, fully yellow eyes and slit pupils fixed on Aziraphale as he shuffled the past three days - the past decade and everything relevant to this moment - into something sensible, something they could build on.

"My..." But he wasn't Aziraphale's, regardless the history they now recalled. Neither of them lived that, and he still recalled his own life, alone, distinct from the angel who befriended a real demon rather than an imaginary one. An intelligent yet slightly ridiculous angel who knew a friend would always be there for him, who had someone to smile brightly for and someone to look forward to seeing. An angel not quite himself who left him with six thousand years of emotions not his own surrounding this demon.

Neither Madam Tracy nor Shadwell paid any extra attention to the demon standing with them, as he clearly arrived with them and they expected - No! He'd not arrived _with_ them, he arrived just after having driven up from London alone in his Bentley (and that's exactly the car Crawly wanted Aziraphale to drive, and probably in the same fashion) while _on fire_. That must all still be true, given Crowley's state.

Himself, Crowley yanked his eyes away from Aziraphale long enough to frown in disbelief at Madam Tracey and Shadwell, who must've also seemed to appear at the same time as Aziraphale since he brought them. For a moment, he scanned the children and Horsemen, looking for any other surprises.

"You are real, aren't you?" Aziraphale asked, wanting to step forward and touch him so badly. Crawly never took up space, never appeared solid, never-

"Oye! As real as- This all really happening still?"

Crawly never talked or stuttered over his words. When Crowley swung around, opening his long arms to the scene around them, he nearly dropped Agnes Nutter's book. He flipped it back and forth in his hand, trying to make sense of it. Without Aziraphale he wouldn't have that book... because... Oh dear. No one would ever get so drunk, on the edge of tears, simply for losing Aziraphale.

Had his bookshop burned down?

"I... well, that is... apparently." It felt right, watching Crowley turn about, completely ignoring the drama of the nearby humans, but it also made something ache in him, knowing those new memories never happened. "There must have been a... wedge, as thin as a page, a mistake, upstairs. Above Upstairs," he amended when the demon turned those beautiful eyes on him. The same eyes as ever, honest, yet real. "And now the Antichrist has fixed it."

"Yeah." He exhaled the word more than spoke it, gazed at the child standing up to a Horseman with a flaming sword, then squinted at the Antichrist. "He said that. 'Bout it being not right and gettin' on the same page."

"A pair," Aziraphale added, far too bold, but better to extinguish his expectations sooner. The pair the child expected came with ages of memories shared between them, witnessing civilizations conquer their way to empires and break apart together. Regardless what Aziraphale wanted, he couldn't know what Crowley wanted; he wasn't Crawly, nor was he the demon who shared his past with Aziraphale either. After living on his own, he wouldn't want anything to do with a fussy, frumpy angel. Madam Tracy certainly hadn't been impressed. On his own, Crowley probably had a much better time of it than these new memories he shared with Aziraphale.

Death opened wings of night, wings that cut through the matter of creation into the darkness beneath, in which glimmered distant light that may have been stars. Or may have been something else entirely.

Four children, two adults, a demon and an angel stood on the tarmac. They looked between each other and then down, none of them certain what to do now, which left it up to Aziraphale to blunder into the silence.

"That's it then," he said, clapping his hands before him and twinning his fingers together. This had all gone quite strangely and he would really like to put it behind him and deal with... whatever needed dealing with next. Oh, and he'd need to thank Madam Tracy for ensuring he didn't kill - or try to kill - a child today. "Everything's back to-"

"Oh, it isn't over," Crowley said, stepping forward. "Nothing's over. Both Heaven and Hell still want their war. You, boy, the Antichrist - what's your name again?"

"Adam Young." Without Death across from him, he seemed like a normal child, and one growing uncertain. He just wanted it to be over as well.

"So, you and your friends got together and saved the world. Well done, have a good star. It won't make a difference."

"You!" The witch emerged from the communications center with a young man on her arm and pointed at Aziraphale and Crowley as if they'd- Of course, as she remembered it, she never confronted demons. No, she'd... She'd run into Crowley's Bentley while he'd been driving without the lights on and crashed her bike. They'd never known she was a witch. "You stole my book!"

"Book girl!" Crowley shouted back with a laugh, pulling together who she must be a moment later, he _threw_ the charred book at her! "Catch!"

Too shocked to react, Aziraphale stared in horror, as the old, burnt book flew through the air. A slip of charred paper fluttered lose and Aziraphale caught it before it could be lost. _When all is sayed and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enouff you will be playing with Fyire._

"What is going on here?" the witch demanded, holding the book close. She must be one of Agnes Nutter's descendants - the descendant. Anathema. Which meant the young man on her arm must be the same one Agnes spoke of as well.

"Long story, no time," Crowley replied, his hands even more expressive without the book to hold.

"Try me," she snapped, raising her chin. Since Crowley had stepped forward to speak, Aziraphale let him stutter, quite happy to avoid explaining anything regarding his newly acquired history. Dissatisfied with the demon, Anathema's glare passed over the adults and settled on the children. 

"Hi, Adam," she said, managing a friendly greeting. "Hi, Pepper. Hi... you two."

"Hello Anathema," Adam replied, polite and slightly unworldly around the edges, unearthly. "You just stopped them from blowing up the world, didn't you?"

"I guess," she agreed, with a smug little smile, then glanced to the lad she stood with. "My boyfriend here did the tricky bit." The boyfriend began to shake his head at the credit, then chocked.

"Boyfriend?"

"Another deluded victim of the patriarchy," Pepper said as she shook her head, and Aziraphale could hardly fault the child's assumption. On the other hand, perhaps the witch trusted her ancestor's judgment of him.

A crack of violet lightning struck the tarmac, Gabriel creating a show as he arrived in his favorite suit and, honestly, looking far more human than angelic. A moment later, the tarmac next to him opened and a short figure rose from the ground, their suit accented with a red sash and a large fly-thing positioned on their head. At the same time he noticed Crowley frowning at Gabriel, Aziraphale realized that the Beelzebub who lost their position recently never existed either. Reaching a similar conclusion, Crowley glanced to Aziraphale and, catching his eye, shrugged. Aziraphale opened his hands as he realigned what he knew of this Beelzebub from his new memories of what that Crowley told him (as well as his own new memories of experiences with this Gabriel, though that seemed hardly any different). Crowley gave a side ways nod and half rolled his eyes at it all, agreeing at the confusion, and a thrill ran through Aziraphale at the shared understanding, one he tempered quickly. A single moment's exchange, built from both being pushed into a new reality at such a dangerous moment, hardly meant they'd be friends.

The two being strode across the tarmac, both trying to pretend the other didn't exist even as they moved together.

Still next to Aziraphale, Crowley straightened and bowed. "Lord Beelzebub. What an honor."

"Crowley," Beelzebub buzzed back, their eyes narrowing. "The traitor." Ready to object to the assessment, given how poorly Beelzebub fared without Crowley, Aziraphale's words caught in his throat as Gabriel focused on him. He straightened his bow tie.

"That's not a nice word."

"All the other words I have for you are worse. Where is the boy?" Really, demanding answers right after insulting him. That wasn't sporting-

"There. Adam Young." Of course, Crowley had worked for Beelzebub as long as Aziraphale worked for Gabriel, and he wouldn't be any more keen on aggravating the Prince of Hell than Aziraphale the Archangel. 

Moving quickly, thankfully taking himself and his judgment away, Gabriel strode forward, yet Beelzebub had no trouble keeping up despite their smaller stature. While they planted themself before Adam, Gabriel bent down awkwardly. "Young man, Armageddon must restart Right Now. A temporary inconvenience is not going to get in the way of the ultimate good."

"Az to what it standz in the way of, that haz yet to be decided," Beelzebub said, shooting a glare at Gabriel before giving their full attention to Adam. "But the battle must be decided now, boy. Thiz iz your deztiny. It is Written. Now, Start The War."

"You want to end the world just to see whose gang is best?" Adam asked in a huff, the very suggestion ridiculous when put that way.

"Obviously," Gabriel agreed, ignoring or unaware of the sarcasm. "That's the Great Plan! The entire point of Earth's creation!"

Adam stared back at him, the Archangel far less impressive to an adolescent boy while wearing a well cut suit and a company smile.

"I've got thiz," Beelzebub hissed, equally unimpressed, and Gabriel actually stepped back, huffing at Adam's stubbornness. Leaning in closer, almost the same size as Adam, the Prince of Hell spoke in a softer voice. "Adam, once thiz is over, you are going to rule the world. Don't you want to rule the world?"

Gabriel gestured to Beelzebub, as if supporting his remark, though Heaven would destroy Adam if they won. While better odds than the rest of humanity, Gabriel's agreement was a lie - an implied lie, not a direct one. And it struck Aziraphale that this plan, this moment, was no different than any of the plans or directions he ever received from Heaven. There was, of course, the Right way, except Gabriel wasn't being very clear about exactly how the Right way would go, nor did he explain that, in starting the war and leading Hell, Adam would be doing the Wrong thing. Not that Heaven ever was very clear. After all, Gabriel just proved he danced around the concept of the Right way, falsely implying the boy would be a ruler so that he could defeat him. If he was desperate enough to support the Prince of Hell... Well, he would certainly present Aziraphale with a loophole to exploit.

"It's hard enough having to think of things for Pepper and Wensleydale and Brian to do all the time so they don't get bored," Adam said, eyes flicking between the 'adults' as he refused them again. "I've got all the world I want."

"You can't refuse to be who you are!" Gabriel snapped and Adam shifted back, still a child. "Your birth and destiny are part of the Great Plan!"

And there it was.

Raising a hand, he left his place by Crowley, uncertain how to share is plan with him or if he'd even want anything to do with it, and stood with Adam. "Excuse me," he said and Adam relaxed just a touch. Not because the Antichrist really needed a fussy angel on his side while facing down the Prince of Hell and an Archangel, but because the child needed an adult to agree with him while refusing two other adults. The poor boy already confront the Horsemen with his friends, but they were unreal, monsters under the bed, creatures children could overcame. Gabriel and Beelzebub wouldn't look out of place in central London, even with the fly on Beelzebub's head, and people not so different than them often overruled Adam.

"You keep talking about the Great Plan."

"Aziraphale," Gabriel said with the worst frown Aziraphale every received from him, but this time he couldn't let it affect him. He'd tried to raise the Antichrist, only partially protecting him from the demons because Heaven wouldn't allow him to intervene. When Heaven refused, he even tried to kill Adam, to save the world, and only Madam Tracy stopped him. This time, he would help. When he didn't start stuttering or step away, Gabriel's frowned twitched and his expression took on the mask-like quality again. "Maybe you should keep your mouth shut." As he bit off the last word, meaning far worse than he'd say in such company, Crowley straightened and glared, but Aziraphale hadn't any further attention to spare for him.

"Only," he insisted, as polite as possible, because he couldn't win a confrontation, "I'm not clear on one thing. Is this the Ineffable Plan?"

"The Great Plan," Beelzebub answered first, all their vowels starting to take on a buzz. 'It iz written. There shall be a world and it shall lazt for zix thouzand yearz and eend in fiire and flaaame."

"Yes, that's the Great Plan alright," he agreed, giving a little nod before edging in a frown with his technicality. "Just wondering it it's the Ineffable Plan as well."

"It's the same thing!" But he hesitated, baffled, when Aziraphale didn't lower his eyes at his outburst. "Surely?"

"It's just," Crowley said as he joined Aziraphale, who had to ignore the thrill that anyone would stand with him. No wonder Adam seemed relieved. "Just a pity, is all, if you thought you were doing what the Great Plan said and all, but actually you were were going directly against God's Ineffable Plan." He tipped his head to Aziraphale, crediting him, and Aziraphale was absolutely certain he could listen to this voice ramble endlessly.

If they survived that long.

"Everyone knows the Great Plan," he continued, probably able to ramble endlessly, "but the Ineffable Plan? Well, it's ineffable, ain't it? Can't know it, by definition."

" _It iz written!_ "

"God does not play games with the universe!" Gabriel added.

Aziraphale gawked at him as Crowley rolled back on his heels. "Where have you been?"

How many times had Aziraphale wanted to ask such a question in such a tone of Gabriel? When he glanced at Crowley, he demon shifted his hands ever so slightly in complete agreement. No doubt, they were thinking actually thinking drastically different things, but, if nothing else, he was glad someone questioned Gabriel.

Straightening his shoulders, frowning at them yet his confidence shaken, Gabriel stepped back and motioned for Beelzebub to join him. He crouched comically as he spoke to the shorter leader.

"I'm... um... going to need to talk to the head office." He pointed upward, probably thinking he spoke quietly but even old Shadwell could hear him. "How am I going to get ten million angels to stand down from war doesn't bear thinking about."

"You ought to try getting ten million demons to put down their weaponz and go back to work," Beelzebub replied, the tinniness no longer as strong in their voice.

If they both intended to withdraw, then they accepted Adam's decision and the Ineffable Plan over the Great Plan. Earth might survive.

"As least we know whose fault this is." As he straightened, Gabriel glared at them. With nothing left to lose, Aziraphale gave a chipper grin and waved while Crowley, exhausted and covered in soot, managed a sarcastic smile, mostly teeth.

"Young man?" Gabriel said, approaching the child (with at least half a decade before he could even pretend at being an adult) again, ignoring the angel and demon behind him as he pointed at him.

"Yes?" Adam asked, aware he succeed in saving the world but also of the power the being before him held.

"You were put on this Earth to do one thing and one thing only. To End It. You're a disobedient little brat and I hope someone tells your father." So much for 'young man' and not at all the way an authority figure should speak to a child.

"Oh, zomeone will," Beelzebub promised, eyes fixed on Adam and flies buzzing faster about them. "And your father will Not Be Pleazed."

Another flash of lightning and they stood alone.

No one spoke, even Aziraphale couldn't think how to follow that.

"Weren't they odd? Madam Tracy said, which both covered and understated the entire day.

"I want to go home," Adam said, doing a far better job at covering everyone's sentiment.

"Actually," the shorter of the two other boys said, "I want to go home, too." Pepper and the taller boy murmured their agreement, though Aziraphale hardly heard them. A decade spent as a gardener, a handful days trying every trick he could imagine, and so, so many failures, yet here they stood, the world continuing. No endings. Drawing a deep breath, hand on his chest in relief, he turned to Crowley, this demon who-

-dropped like a lead balloon, twisting in pain.

"No! Nononononono..." Teeth gritted, he snarled as speech failed him and Aziraphale's stomach twisted.

"What's happening?" He scanned the tarmac, searching for anything unusual, and saw just humans, adults and children, all ready to go home. Nothing for this unnatural, uncomfortable sensation. Though... it might be familiar? From a time before... "I can feel... something..." Something below. Something-

"They did it," Crowley managed, teeth still clenched, looking up to Aziraphale as if he should understand. "They told hisss father."

"Oh no."

"And his ssatanic father-" He grimaced, chocking and hissing as he regained his breath. "...isss not happy..."

The base began shaking, as the something below charged upward and steam escaped though ever crack in the concrete.

"Perhaps it's a volcano," the witch's boyfriend said, the pair balancing each other as they stumbled.

"There aren't any volcanoes in England," she snapped, which wasn't entirely fair of her, giving the earlier tornadoes, raining fish and aliens. And the rising something definitely felt like a new volcano. "It's really angry, whatever it is. I can feel it and it's getting closer."

"What's happening?" Shadwell demanded.

"Well," Aziraphale said, since Crowley was in no state to deal with the humans, and, against the momentous doom approaching, he fell back to old habits, "you can call me an old silly, but it look's like the Devil's coming. Satan himself."

"That's the way, is it, then?" Shadwell waved the Thundergun, which Aziraphale believe was out of bricks, and stood in from of Madam Tracy. "Anyone who wants to hurt the Hoor of Babylon is gonna have ta get past me!" The 'hoor' blushed prettily and eyed Shadwell with a pleased smile. Aziraphale looked down to Crowley.

"Right," he managed. "That wass that. Nice meeting you."

Aziraphale opened then closed his mouth. It might be Satan, but they just won. They turned back all the hosts of Heaven and Hell! Just a boy, a demon and an angel. And they just met! They'd thousands of years of someone else’s memories, someone nearly them, and they might finally have a real friend instead of an imaginary one. "We can't give up now."

"This is Satan himself," Crowley replied, twisting to his side to see Aziraphale above him. "It isn't about Armageddon. "We are fucked!"

Even without time to review all the memories popped into his head, Aziraphale knew how often Crowley dodged Hell's rules and expectations to help him. On his own, by himself without anyone to save, he must've sharpened those skills and now Aziraphale needed to find a way to motivate a complete strange, who he almost knew, to keep fighting. He was so imaginative, Crowley could think of something.

Searching the area for inspiration, Aziraphale saw only the humans and they wouldn't - and the sword. His sword. An angel, a Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, he'd been made to fight, designed to wield that sword. When he picked it up, it fit awkwardly in his hand, too full full of implications he never wanted. He gave it away for a reason and, despite everything, didn't want it back now.

"Come up with something or..." Feeling entirely like an old silly with War's sword in his hand, he halted on the edge of a threat that would sound more absurd. But, for the first time since he felt Satan's approach, Crowley gave him his full attention. Somehow, the agony of Satan's anger was less important than Aziraphale's. Nonsense, as Aziraphale couldn't be as anywhere as important to anyone as Satan himself, but it gave him a place to start. Six thousand years on his own, perhaps Crowley just wanted a friend as well. "Or we'll never talk at all."

An obvious conclusion, really, since Satan intended to destroy them, and still absurd as Aziraphale knew the worth of his own conversation to any being who lived more than a hundred years, yet Crowley flinched as if hit. Locking eyes with him, he gave a single decisive nod, a promise for the future, and then launched himself to his feet.

Just outside of time, they stood on the sands Eve and Adam once crossed. Or still crossed, or hadn't yet crossed. A little pocket of sand from the beginning. Wings always out here, Aziraphale spreads them as he pushes back his shoulders, while Crowley does the same, his wings crow black instead of dove white, though large, more similar to a swan than a corvid or pigeon. Along with his wings, Crowley also adds glasses to hid his beautiful yellow eyes, understandable as they may unsettle Adam, even though Aziraphale finds comfort in them.

"Adam," Crowley says. "Listen, you father's coming to destroy you. To destroy us all."

"My dad?" Still the Antichrist, unnerved to be outside of time, yet forgetting how he becomes the Antichrist. "My dad wouldn't hurt anybody."

"Not your earthy father. Satan, you father who is no longer in Heaven. He's coming and he's angry."

"So... What do you want me to do?" He looks between them, the demon Crowley on his left and the angel Aziraphale on his right, opposites in everything and together because of him. "Fight him?"

"I don't think fighting him would do any good," Crowley says, serious yet apologizing. Finding them time was his only idea, he hasn't any other solutions. "You're going to have to come up with something else."

"But - I'm just a kid!"

"That's not a bad thing," Aziraphale assures him. Never a child himself, never human at all, he learns from generation after generations the importance, strength and resilience of children. To great a weigh to put on a child, but only Adam can answer. "You know, I was scared you'd be Hell Incarnate. I hoped to teach you to be Heaven Incarnate." He pauses, amazed anew at his own foolish ego. "But you aren't either of those, Adam. You're better than that. You are Human Incarnate."

"Adam," Crowley continues, easily building on Aziraphale's words, "reality is listening to you right now. You can still change things. And when I start time again, you'll have to do it fast."

"Whatever happens," Aziraphale agrees, "for good or for evil, we'll be beside you." He holds out his hand even as Crowley does, and Adam accepts them both, demon and angel, his small shoulders set and young face determined. Bracing his wings, Aziraphale shifts his grip on the sword, reminding it who it is made for. White flame races over the blade and Crowley grins. Perhaps they will get a chance to talk.

"I'm going to start time," he tells Adam. "You won't have long to do whatever you're going to do." And, with the car starter from his Bentley, he revs time into motion once more.

They stood on the tarmac, the ground rumbling and spitting.

"Do it quickly," Crowley added, his words nearly lost in the noise, "because he's-"

The ground split apart, concrete tumbling aside as steam and smoke roared out around a giant red figure. Great black wings (entirely unlike Crowley's well groomed feathers) spread wide and a mocking crown of horns on his head, Satan towered over them then banged a fist the size of of a human and screamed his anger.

"Where is my son?" The smoke dispersed enough to reveal him, his upper body all that he'd drawn out of the ground. His gaze fixed on Adam. "You! You're my rebellious son? Come here."

A squeeze of their hands, his so small compared to Satan's fists, and Adam released them to walk forward. A small boy against a monster. Then he stopped.

"You're not my dad," he informed Satan. Recalling Warlock's defiance, Aziraphale reconsidered a child's changes against Satan himself. "Dads don't wait until you're eleven to say hello and turn up only to tell you off!"

"What?" For all the power in his demand, Satan's surprise meant he already lost.

"If I'm in trouble with my dad-"

With another roar, Satan slammed both his fists against the tarmac, cracking it deeper. More red steam hissed out before he drew himself up even taller. But Adam had only paused because the demonstration rocked the ground he stood on and, once certain of his feet, he didn't hesitate.

"-then it won't be with you! If I'm in trouble with my dad, it'll be with the dad who was there! You're not - not my... dad." He managed the words, forcing them out against Satan's will.

"What did you say?" Satan growled, daring him to continue his defiance. Faced with an authority figure, one of unimaginable size and standing, one who could crush humans with only his will, Adam stumbled.

"You can do it!" Aziraphale yelled.

"Say it, Adam!" Crowley shouted, darting a glance at Aziraphale he couldn't decipher because of the shades. Excitement? Pride? It didn't matter, not next to the certainty in it, not when he shared it with Aziraphale, standing with him for Adam's sake.

"Come here," Satan snarled again.

But Adam no longer strained against Satan's control. Chin high, he stared him down and spoke the truth. "You're not my dad. You never were."

His words became reality's truth. Even as Satan screamed in denial, the smoke vanished with him, the tarmac whole and, of all things, a reliable car drove through the disappearing chaos. When it pulled to a stop in the same place Satan had emerged, a middle-aged man stepped out.

"Adam?" Not a roar, not even a demand, just a question as he scanned the odd little crowd. As soon as they saw the car, though, the children dashed off, reclaimed their bikes, and made good their escape.

"That's not really his father," Aziraphale whispered. This would really be Warlock's father.

"But he is," Crowley replied, his lips curling upward. "He is now. And, now, he always was. He did it!" Again, he shared this excitement with Aziraphale, including him in the victory for the small part they had in it, each of them as much as the other, even with all the credit going to Adam. They supported him together.

"Oh! For Heaven's sake, where is he? Adam! Where are you?"

Rather than point after the boy who just defeated Satan, denied an Archangel and Prince of Hell, and stood up to to the Four Horsemen with his friends, Crowley and Aziraphale said nothing. Neither did Madam Tracy, Shadwell, Anathema or Newt. Nor did any of the soldiers just waking up from their nap.

"Would anyone care to explain to me exactly what is going on?" 

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. They were going to need some kind of an explanation, weren't they?

  
  


**That Evening**

They sat on the bench in the center of Tadfield, a cardboard box of "relics" between them and a bottle of 1921 Chateauneuf-du-Pape currently in Crowley's hand. Aziraphale had no idea where he found it in the small village, perhaps they'd a specialty shop, nor could he know why the demon picked this particular bottle, which happened to be Aziraphale's favorite, and he'd no intention to ask. When offered, he accepted it, taking a drink before passing it back. Worrying the small bit of burnt paper in his hands, he wasn't sure what to ask. Skilled at avoiding questions, he'd no idea how to ask the hard ones.

"What's that?" Crowley asked as he offered the wine. Accepting the bottle, Aziraphale gave him the paper and Crowley read it aloud, considered it then returned it. "One of Agnes's prophesies?" Since meeting Mr. Young, they'd covered the basics with the humans willing to listen, though neither of them mentioning the change in reality. Crowley made faces and almost words while Aziraphale distracted them with technicalities if they came too close. Though he asked, Anathema only said she'd think about selling him Agnes's book. Even if they caught up with her prophecies, he would dearly love to read it without the end of the world hanging over his head.

"The final one, as far as I know, yes." He paused. "And Adam's... human?" Among the other humans, he hadn't wanted to raise the possibility. The witch had certain ideas about saving the world and Adam was only a child.

"As far as I can tell, yup," Crowley agreed. "Take a bit of time for it to wear off, but yeah."

Raising the bottle to that, Aziraphale didn't get a drink before the International Express van pulled up, instead handing back the bottle to sign over the scale and crown, and the sword after a moment of confusion. (Part of him would rather keep them, hide them away so humanity couldn't ever touch them again and ensure Armageddon never returned. Possibly he should find out who the 'International Express' really was and how they came to have them and track them better. However, he also wanted never to see his sword again, and gave it away a second time.) When Crowley offered the bottle, he sat and drank immediately.

"Do you think," he forced himself to ask, "that the Almighty planned this from the beginning?"

"Wouldn't put it past Them," Crowley said, and smiled. Aziraphale could get used to that smile. "That's the ineffable bit, isn't it? Your ineffable bit?"

"Why, yes." With Crowley speaking as if he'd done something Right, _his_ bit, Aziraphale ducked to hid his blush. He couldn't guess if he was relieved or disappointed when he spotted movement. "Oh! There's the bus. Oh, it says Oxford on the front."

"Yeah, but the driver will go to London," Crowley said as he waved, about to return them to their daily lives. "Just won't know why."

"I suppose I should get them to drop me off at the bookshop," Aziraphale murmured, settling on disappointed. Despite everything that happened today, he wasn't ready to head home yet. They worked so hard, if not entirely effectively, to keep the world from ending, and yet the thought of tomorrow continuing as normal as ever felt empty.

And now Crowley was looking at him, and his voice was soft, already apologizing. "It burned down, remember?"

Opening his mouth to object, Aziraphale barely closed it again. He hadn't a home, no daily life. Nothing would continue as normal without his shop, without his books. He had the world yet didn't have anything.

"You can stay at my place," Crowley offered, voice still gentle, "if you like."

Just as he began to smile, that any eternal being would invite him into his own home, he recalled Gabriel's glare from earlier. Everything seemed possible then, when Armageddon didn't happen and the Archangel backed down, yet nothing would change. He dropped his gaze to his hand, realizing how little they accomplished. Adam saved the world, then saved them. They did nothing but stand there, not even saving themselves. "I don't think my side would like that."

"You don't have a side anymore." He spoke so gently, still apologizing, as if Aziraphale deserved anyone to speak to with with so much care. "Neither of us do. We're on our own side."

The bus pulled before them, stopping the conversation and Crowley lead the way in. In uncounted memories, if they ever rode the same bus, the second person picked a seat ahead or behind, or elsewhere entirely. That'd never been Aziraphale's life. When Crowley picked a seat, Aziraphale followed him and clasped the hand unwittingly waiting for him.

"I would like that," he managed, a thousand times harder than speaking with Gabriel and yet so much easier, so much better. When Crowley's attention jumped from their hands to Aziraphale's face, he tried to smile. But none of those memories belonged to them, not really; they didn't know each other at all. He'd read too much into Crowley's offer, and bungled it all before anything started. "Un... Unless you've changed your mind?" But he barely loosened his fingers before Crowley's tightened and he tugged Aziraphale's hand protectively closer.

"Me- My? I- hu- No! No changing, not my mind. Ironclad, very..." With a grimace, he trailed off, and Aziraphale's uncertainty turned into a fond smile, which prompted Crowley to relax. "Invite still stands. Any time, always. Glad to have you."

"Thank you." The whisper couldn't encompass his gratitude, someone still wanting him when he lost everything else. Human civilizations could change so quickly, he lost his Earthly homes before, and he never considered Heaven a place of solace, whatever he tried to pretend, but the hand holding his provided a sanctuary. Yet, perhaps, he needn't say it perfectly, not with how Crowley watched him, eyes hidden but with a smile and his shoulders relaxed. And he would look no less soft gazing back at him. Perhaps they'd do nothing more the entire ride back.

"I... uh... I got oysters," Crowley said and winced at Aziraphale's baffled frown. "Petronus. In Rome, back, after- Well... You weren't - It was just me and I wasn't interested - in them. In trying them."

Unsure what worried him, and not recalling any specific oysters he had while visiting Rome (he tried quite a few and they'd been very inventive with them) or a specific Petronus, Aziraphale listened intently and, as Crowley petered out, squeezed his hand. A glance to their hands then back up to his face, and Aziraphale nearly asked what was wrong, but Crowley squeezed back and lay his other hand over them, encompassing Aziraphale's hand.

"After Hell sent me to tempt Claudius, when Heaven sent you to mentor Nero," he started again, giving Aziraphale enough of a reference. For all he wished to know Crowley well enough to follow his thoughts, he couldn't yet trail them. "I was in a rotten mood, about to get myself very drunk and you - the you in those memories Adam dumped on us, what everyone else remembers - showed up and invited me - tempted me - to eat oysters. Look, I went, too - me, myself, on my own. I didn't have a reason, I guess, just sitting there, moping and you still suggested we try- not you, I mean..." He scrunched his nose, his squirm at a mistake that made no sense. Except, perhaps, it did.

"I considered changing Crawly's name around the same time," he said instead, admitting what he never voiced aloud, wishing he was brave enough to ask Crowley to remove his glaces. Still, he started it, with the round about story of oysters, never knowing Aziraphale had the same crutch. "Crawly, my.... imaginary fr-" My 'you' that wasn't you because I didn't have you. "A foil, to practice my arguments with. A thought experiment, really, a persona I created - I thought I created, I suppose - just so... so I wouldn't be stumped when the demons..." Sometime in the first thousand years, he stopped trying to justify Crawly's company, which meant over five thousand since he questioned him. Until today, when he dismissed him. "Human live only so long, you know, and angels..." He grimaced, unable to talk sensibly at all.

"When did you change your name?" he prompted quickly. "I thought I was being cleaver, I supposed, thinking you as slippery as a snake who 'crawled' on his belly, and it fit the way the other demons named themselves. But that was you, initially, before you changed it. I didn't make it up, that was the name gave in the Garden." How had he known? Why had he chosen a snake. The demon in Eden, as he experienced, had been some kind of beetle, and squashed before she did anything more, allowing him to shift the human's story to include his imaginary snake. "There's so many memories, I'm not sure when you chose a new."

"Only an adjustment," he hedged, "just enough. Same time, maybe a few decades earlier. But you didn't? You called me - him - Crawly? Even now?"

"It seemed terribly presumptuous." Admitting it aloud seemed silly, what could he possibly be presuming in renaming his imaginary friend? Other than, of course, the demon sitting next to him, who might be a real friend. "None of us named ourselves, neither the angels or demons. Only you did." He looked into his eyes, finding an angle he could see through the glasses, and smiled. "You picked a whole name, Anthony J. Crowley. You're terribly special, Crowley."

"Wot? Me? I'm not. Just a regular demon, not a duke, not even a local councilor."

"You're holding hands with an angel."

"And what of it? This is a special angel, better than all the rest."

"Oh, I don't think so," he said in a breath. "A. Z. Fell isn't a new name, you know. It's only a play on Aziraphale."

"There isn't a reason to get a new name if you don't want it, and yours is a good name. Aziraphale." Letting it roll on his tongue and whispering it across his lips, as if he'd never said it before. But then he glanced away, checks reddening. "Didn't give mine a name," he muttered. "Never needed to, never called him, didn't tell anyone else about him. Oh, I did. When I was Nanny Astoreth, I needed a way to give the Dowlings marriage advise so I talked about my dear..." he made a face- "Elijah. That doesn't sound anything like Aziraphale. Totally wrong."

"Not entirely," Aziraphale said hurriedly. "Look a how differently Elijah is pronounced in other languages. And I've used Ezra more than once. My name is rather uncommon, without any similar replacements. Also Elijah was quite the prophet! It's quite an honor you'd name me after him." Squirming at at the praise, Crowley's checks reddened and he rubbed Aziraphale's wrist with his thumb. "I- I am surprised you didn't pick an angelic name for him," he admitted. Many humans named their themselves or their children after the archangels, but Crowley snorted.

"Those wankers? You're way better than them, and I wouldn't marry them. Gabby? Micky? Bleh." He wrinkled his nose while Aziraphale boggled at the nicknames. "Uriel, maybe, but she wouldn't come near me. That's part of why I couldn't give you a name at all, not one that sounded like an angel. Didn't want to accidentally name him after someone I might meet. It'd ruin the whole thing."

"That didn't occur to me," Aziraphale admitted, belatedly grateful he'd not met another Crawly, if there was any other demon with that name. He sighed. "So many things didn't. An angel with an imaginary demon for a friend. Given the sentiments you shared, it seemed appropriate, though I always considered them an echo of my own doubts when they were an echo of your questions."

"I'm a bad influence even when I'm not around," he said with a smirk. "And you wouldn't have kept me around if you didn't share some of my sentiments."

"And was I?" he asked softly, rather certain he knew the answer. "An imaginary angel to befriend a demon? Was I a good influence?"

"You're not imagined," he said, "and of course you were. Only a real angel, a being really of love, would put up with someone like me. A proper angel, the way the humans like to describe the Upstairs lot, not a bunch of stiffs like Gabby. You're always a good influence."

"Oh, I'm certain I don't qualify." He'd have pulled away as he glanced away, but Crowley tightened his hold. "A proper angel would never have given away his sword, twice, nor refused the call and not joined his platoon. I dodged Heaven's war, possessed people, nearly shot a child with a tuba, and stood with a demon and the Antichrist. I'm quite certain I no longer qualify as an angel."

"Hey, no." Releasing one hand from the bundle of their, Crowley touched his chin to raise his face and tipping his head, dropping his glasses down his nose so those beautiful yellow eyes held Aziraphale's. "This isn't an intermission, right now. The party's over, the Antichrist and his friends tucked into bed, heavenly and demonic armies dispersed, human armies turned 'technical issues' over to the experts, and even Satan banished. Armageddon is officially canceled and you're still an angel. The best of the lot. It you were going to lose it, They'd have already tossed you out. You're stuck with your harp. 'Sides, it's not like Hell wants us either."

"We're on our side," he agreed, repeating Crowley's words and daring a smile, rewarded with the demon's warm grin. Whatever else, Crowley wanted him on his side; he wanted him at his side. The crinkly around his eyes, shared with Aziraphale even when hidden from the rest of the world. "You're beautiful, you know. You're hair is red and you're taller than me, not like I'd imagined, and I'm..." Feeling foolish as those beautiful eyes widened and his mouth fell open, Aziraphale blushed and lost track of his words. "I'm glad you're you," he murmured. He'd dealt with Gabriel for eons, he knew better than to just speak. "I'm glad you're here."

Noises escaped Crowley, words caught on his tongue, then a scuff as he pulled his hand free. Even as Aziraphale began to panic, unprepared to straighten as he should yet unsurprised he messed it up already, Crowley stretched his arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, and again took Aziraphale's hand with his other, resting them together on his thigh. "You're cuter. More solid, too. Way better."

The slightly strain under his words, this glasses sitting properly again though this close Aziraphale could see his eyes behind them, and the tension in his body hinted that he might've acted as thoughtlessly as Aziraphale with his words. Able to reassure him, and indulge himself, Aziraphale leaned in and wiggled happily, simultaneously fitting himself comfortably against the lean demon. In all those new memories, they rarely let even their hands touch, any content a momentary brush. But in those memories, if they couldn't touch, they could talk, they could smile and joke and comment. After thousands of years with only an imaginary echo of a friend, they hadn't same restraint tonight, especially not after quitting their offices so dramatically.

"Did you take an exceptionally long nap in the 1800s?" Aziraphale asked, finding a lonely place in these new memories. A different kind of lonely, but still as keen.

"After the fight in the park?" Crowley asked a moment later "Yup, longest nap of my existence back, though I didn't have a reason to, not really. Don't recall if I visited St. John's right before, but everything seemed to dull and frustrating. So I napped."

"I recall feeling off," he said, examining his own memory and the new memory together. The sensations were similar, though not the same. "The world felt unwelcome and even my imaginary friend wouldn't visit me, not while you were sleeping, I guess. Did you encounter the Nazis?" he asked, feeling out the implications. "They'd gone after my- other booksellers, and so I ensured they stopped. It shouldn't have taken me so long, but you were always warning me to be careful. You - Crawly - said you'd not be there to get me out of trouble, which was odd, as, for all taking to Crawly helped, he wasn't physically able to help me. He couldn't get m out of trouble. The confrontation still happened in that church, and I still had believed that woman, however... I was less shocked. And, well, I am an angel and they were defying one of God's holy places with this book deal."

"Did Crawly show up?"

"No... I couldn't imagine he'd do so." He frowned. "I was not discorporated but there was a great deal of heavenly and earthly paperwork afterwards. You saved me from all of that," he added, smiling at a memory of Crowley in his hat hopping down the aisle of consecrated ground. He wished he could've witnessed it himself.

"You've done the same for me," Crowley muttered, embarrassed by the commitment he'd not been able to show himself. "And it's not like we'd any help skirting our offices."

"I did not skirt my office," Aziraphale informed him, raising his face enough to frown at him. "I have always fulfilled my duties to the utmost."

Before Crowley decided on a reply, Aziraphale's smile slipped through and Crowley laughed instead of stuttering, tugging Aziraphale closer as he did. Delighted with the sound and rumble, the warmth and closeness, Aziraphale let himself be pulled in, momentarily closer his eyes.

"I trailed after those Nazis," Crowley mussed, "and gave 'em hell until I dropped them onto MI6. They were going after booksellers and you love books, so I had to stop that. Blowing up a church would've made it easier to dress up for Hell, but I never visited it."

Humming to himself, Aziraphale considered their three narratives. Themselves, the shared memory, and the imaginary echo. Perhaps Adam should've made their shared memory their only memory and dismissed their lonesome selves entirely. They'd felt each other, and their interactions, even when alone. It might be easier to have always been together.

"I recall being so worried in the 1960s. I collected rumors about Soho, trying to discover what upset me so, certain the important tidbit would reach me, though I'd no idea what I thought I'd find. It wasn't the only time I listened as so and now I wonder.... But, in the 60s, it was at least a week later before i realized I'd stopped. Did you get the Holy Water?"

"Yup, month before my extended nap. Didn't have anyone to ask, so I convinced some pretend occultists they needed to fetch it for me. Even got 'em to test it, make sure it was real." While he paused, waiting for questions, he drew circles on Aziraphale's palm with his thumb, thoughtless little things that diverted Aziraphale so he entirely forgot the subject, let alone any specific questions. Crowley continued talking, meandering through the memories. "You - my imaginary angel - was furious about it, thought I'd end myself with it even though he was around while I was plotting it. That never made much sense, though I guess it does now, if he was partially you and partially the you of the us as much as the my own imagination. If any of that makes sense. But it wasn't for that. It was insurance." He stressed the word so strongly, Aziraphale dragged his attention from the palm to focus on Crowley himself. "And it worked. I used it just... yesterday? Earlier today. Took Ligur out entirely, meant I only had one Duke of Hell after me. Would've been nice if it splashed Hastur too. It was for them, never me. I'm not suicidal."

"Absolutely not," he agreed, unable to agree with either of his counterpart's worry. In fairness, no one ever asked him for Holy Water or to betray Heaven in fetching it, nor had he been concerned with a specific demon possessing it. "You're very clever, is what you are. And, I admit, I share you disappointment. It'd have been pleasant if it also disposed of Hastur. He always was a bother to deal with."

"You know him? Hastur? What about Ligur?"

"Of course, every time Beelzebub regained their title, they'd send one of their dukes up to scout about and I couldn't allow them to stay. Both Hastur and Ligur were too disruptive, if not in scope, always in cruelty. They enjoyed the harm they caused too much."

"Almost human that way," Crowley joked, his smile fond and intrigued. No one had ever been proud of Aziraphale before, and he wiggled, squeeze Crowley's hand, so grateful to be surrounded. "'Couldn't allow them to stay'? I want to see you take out Hastur some time, smite him or whatever you do."

"Well, in the past several centuries, a proper smiting has required extensive permissions. I've become creative." Letting his eyes close again, he breathed deeply, rewarded with hints of smoke and burnt rubber mixed with wine and brimstone, and the wondrous closeness of another body.

"Even better," Crowley sighed as he leaned back as well, content in Aziraphale's company.

"What of you and the angels?" he prompted, wanting to hear his voice more. "Did you have any dealings with them?" As close as he dared to ask if Crowley befriended whoever Gabriel replaced him with.

"Naw, not directly, not more than setting false trails to confuse 'em, and just their operatives or informants. I'd hear about them as indirectly. When Gabby showed up by his lonesome, it really proved Adam changed everything. I'm pretty sure, before for me, the only Archangel who'd go anywhere on her own was Uriel. Gabby and Micky didn't dare try because they didn't know what the other might do. Never something direct," he added, a smirk in his voice, "but always something."

"Oh dear," Aziraphale murmured, recalling the three Archangels and wondering how Heaven could fall apart like that. Though, honestly, he had begun to wonder a good many things about Heaven. Not to mention Crowley's nicknames!

"Heaven owes you. Even when I didn't throw any discomforts their way, their angels couldn't stick it out on Earth a whole century. All this 'physical' stuff and humans acting like 'humans.' Just too much for them. So a new angel would show up without any decent idea how to handle Earth. Even the ones who figured it out, they worked to get promoted back to Heaven." He snorted. "Heaven didn't get any of it's items checked off, not compared to how you accomplished it all."

"Hell did no better without you, everyone fighting over the title for 'Prince of Hell' because neither Beelzebub or anyone else could keep it without you to hold Earth for them. I caused them some problems, but they were so rarely prepared and never understood the whole of the world as you do." He chucked and Crowley hummed back.. "Hell should give you an accommodation."

"Heaven should give you one," he countered. "Beelz unable to keep their title? Gabby and Micky at each other's throats? I think we kept Heaven and Hell manageable by keeping each other amused." By never fighting each other, by never abandoning each other, by balancing each other.

"The humans certainly don't seem any different. The Arrangement seems to have benefited our offices as much as us."

"Not anymore. We're just on our side now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late. I thought I posted it a couple days ago when it'd have been early. I hope it being extra long made up for the delay.


	5. Crowley's Flat

**Rather Late Saturday into Very Early Sunday**

The rest of the ride they spent noting differences in their histories. The tales of King Arthur, who'd been a local and commendable leader in every reality, were far grander in Crowley's reality while in Aziraphale's Sir Kaye became the legendary knight Britain honored. That prompted a giggle from Crowley, which he promised to explain later. Though famous in both their past, Shakespeare was not as enduring in Crowley's while Hamlet never gained renown in Aziraphale's. Yawning, he sleepily they'd need to attend each play together and discus them afterward, to which Crowley countered they'd have to watch a recording so they could pause and comment without missing anything, or getting thrown out. When Crowley swore suddenly, his whole body rigid, Aziraphale learned he ensured the unicorns survived the Flood, and several other times, the latest in the 1950s when he protected them from trophy hunting, and now they'd not existed for thousands of years. The sanctuaries he ensured were created for them remained, though, protecting their habit if not themselves.

Just before they reached London, it occurred to Aziraphale to ask of a more recent book. "Where did you find Agnes Nutter's book of prophecy? I met Anathema in Tadfield at the old birthing hospital, which the demons who delivered and watched for Warlock, instead of you, had burned it down again - presumably because the ex-nun didn't have their answers. Anathema left it in my car. But how did-"

" _Your_ car!" Crowley jerked back to gawk at him, depriving Aziraphale of both cushion and arm. "Since when did you learn to drive?"

"Well, I couldn't very well have you drive me about, could I? But, I promise, you hassled me regularly about how mundane it was and my law-abiding driving. Nor was it anything I greatly enjoyed, but a necessity of the times. I will, in the future, be quite glad to leave it to you, regardless your driving habits."

"Oh, no," he replied, leaning closer, though he didn't wrap his arm back around him, and smiling wickedly. "What if I want you to drive me? I may enjoy you taking control."

"Only as a novelty, I'm certain, but I'll indulge you as you like," he promised problematically, admitting the flirtation only by a raising his brow, but then gave himself a little shake. As they still held hands, and couldn't be far from Crowley's flat, he didn't lean into him again, instead pressing on with his question. "How did you figure out where the Antichrist was?"

"Not with the book," he admitted leaning back in his seat and checking out the window, judging how much time they'd have. Though late, there was still traffic, probably people checking on each other to make sure they all survived the world not ending. "First time I saw that it was in my hand, which was as weird as suddenly seeing you and extra humans standing around. I never meet Book Girl on my own either.

"When Warlock wasn't the Antichrist, eventually I figured there had to be another mom, another kid, but that nun didn't know anything about it and Hastur had burned up all the records," he explained, waving a hand at the information they already knew. "But, really, who's going to use a tiny birthing hospital run by a bunch of nuns? Gotta be a local, and the type of local who's that invested isn't likely to move much, so I checked the nearby schools for kids who share Warlock's birthday. There two of 'em, incidentally, one adopted and one not adopted, which meant the second had to be him. Thing was, I didn't know what to do after that. Sure, I knew where to find him, but he already named the Hell Hound and I wasn't much for killing a kid, if a demon even could kill him. Nearly ran off to the stars, but what'd be the point? Nothing I wanted was out there. Then Hell figured it out and I wouldn't tell them shit about what I knew, so, after Ligur and Hastur came after me, Tadfield seemed the place to be. By the time I got close, I could feel the Antichrist and the Horsemen, which got me to the airbase."

"You did it all on your own," Aziraphale replied, beaming at his cleaver demon and Crowley's skin reddened. "You found the third child then? Thad Jr.? He was adopted? How is he doing in school?" He used to wonder about the child Harriet gave birth to, who'd have grown up in Warlock's place if not for the Antichrist. If not for the Antichrist, the Dowlings would've lived a far different past decade, while Warlock would've grown up with the Youngs instead of Adam. Better to ask after the children, for now, than remark that Crawly also suggested running off to the stars and find out if Crowley argued with his imaginary angel. Aziraphale sent Crowley and Crawly away, had Crowley's imaginary angel also lied and called their relationship fake? Aziraphale hadn't the heart to learn of it just now.

"Yeah, yup," Crowley said, starting to stand and releasing Aziraphale's hand. He nodded, at something beyond the bus. "Adopted, same school as the Antichrist - Adam. Decent marks and all."

"Same village, you think? I wonder if they know each other." The bus stopped and Aziraphale hastily stood to lead them out.

"Same village, same grade, same birthday," Crowley said behind him. "They must."

Pausing the conversation to smile and thank the driver, passing on a blessing to keep the fuel and meters as expected, as well as for a good night's sleep, Aziraphale waited until they stood before a tall imposing building before he said anything more. Recalling himself, he checked after the bus, ensuring the multilayered blessings took hold. Crowley was right, he was still an angel.

"What's his name?" he asked, belatedly recalling their conversation.

"Don't recall." Crowley scrunched his nose, frowning at the automatic doors and a tiny drop of dread slipped into Aziraphale's gut.

"Is there a problem, my dear?" he asked, sounding prompt at least. They no longer touched and, for all Crowley looked real, Crawly always paused before doors, always followed a step after, always enough room Aziraphale needn't be worried he'd be cut off, as if he it'd matter, and yet... Could he step forward and take his hand again? Did he dare? He lead the way off the bus, hadn't he? Crowley lead the way on but he'd walked promptly; had Aziraphale delayed to give him time? If he reached out now, would his hand pass through Crowley's? An illusion, their entire conversation make believe, and everything since Armageddon-

"It's going to be different," Crowley said, running a hand through dark, and uniquely red, hair. "My place, it's gonna be a mesh up at best, isn't it? Everything else is like our shared memories, right? So my place isn't mine, it's - the other mine. I mean, it's mostly the same, right? Mostly mine. Mine still just a different kind of mine. Can't be that different." But he didn't move.

Stepping up beside him, not close enough to activate the automatic door, Aziraphale stood at an angle that allowed him to check their reflection and ensure they both stood there. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach for the hand next to his, and yet he'd not the confidence for that. He'd found something worse than being alone - being alone again. "If it is, you can set it to rights," he said. "It's yours now."

"Ours," Crowley corrected, reflexively then winched. "Just tell you get your bookshop back together, or find someplace- Anyway, c'mon." The last he mumbled, barely audible, and long strides carried him through the door, which definitely opened for him and started to close before Aziraphale hurried after. As they opened again, he supposed it meant they were both real enough machines noticed them, and that was an encouraging.

Quite unintentionally, he also confirmed Crowley still physically real himself, bumping into him when he halted before the desk clerk, who nodded at them with a quick smile. The second time, Aziraphale was prepared to stop, this time before the man before the elevator when he welcomed 'Mr. Crowley' back and called Aziraphale 'sir' without question as he opened the elevators for them. He must have also punched in their destination, as the interior had no buttons.

"What's the matter?" he asked. Though it hardly felt like moving, Crowley might have motion sickness. And he'd not looked at Aziraphale since he'd left the bus. Convinced he was real, now Aziraphale worried he didn't want a fussy angel around, yet he also called the flat 'ours.' Perhaps he was just tired.

"They hate me." He shoved his hands into those tiny pockets.

"They don't seem to," he said, recalling their smiles. "They're quite - oh, you mean you."

"They've always hated me. I'm a demon, I'm rude. Gotta be, can't let the office think... But now? Them?" He jerked his shoulder, as if that indicated anyone, but the point carried. "I know their names. Davis and Telis. I know their families, their troubles, and I think I got them _thoughtful_ gifts last Christmas. Me! That's all your fault." He spun about to face him, looking at him squarely.

"Oh... I... Not me." He clasped his hands before him. It wasn't fair, if associating with an angel made Crowley more well liked, then why hadn't not associating with a demon made Aziraphale... better somehow? But the angel he saw in those memories had been more trusting, kinder - and his experience with the other angels in heaven hardly improved him either.

"Not you," Crowley mumbled, almost an apology, as he looked to the door. "Not you and not me." The pair that counted as a unit in a way they never had.

"I'm sure you could change their minds," Aziraphale offered.

Shoulders hunched, he hit the wall behind him with his heal and mumble his reply so low Aziraphale was only mostly certain he understood.

"I'm sorry? What did you say?" He wanted - needed - the demon to mean it enough to say it clearly.

A ding and the doors opened.

"Doesn't matter," Crowley said as he strode forward, freeing his hands to wave away the whole situation. "They can think whatever they like. This is reality now, both of us here and them with those all memories. What some humans think about me doesn't matter."

Lips pressed together to keep himself from smiling broadly, Aziraphale hummed as he followed him into the hall. "I thought you said you liked it."

Fumbling his keys twice before he dropped them entirely, Crowley grumbled an incoherent denial before bending to snatch them up again. Without a voice, his imaginary demon never sputtered, and, though from these new memories he knew Crowley often tripped over his own words, he'd not imagined how endearing it'd be to witness.

"Do you like it this way?" he pressed. "Do you like these humans smiling at you?"

"It's your fault!" Not trying the key again, he jerked the door open and stormed in.

"If it makes you happy, I will gladly take credit for it," he replied, his fingers intertwined and resting on his belly as he followed.

"I didn't say that!" Crowley began, immediately cut off as Aziraphale seized his arm and yanked him back toward the entrance.

"There's Holy Water here." No wonder he panicked when Crowley requested it. Destruction in a thermos, his demon suddenly too fragile.

"Course," he agreed, amused rather than appropriately fearful. "I told you, I used it to destroy Ligur. Can't be all that holy anymore."

Though able to sense it, he couldn't decide how much a threat it remained, and he may be right about it's threat. Still he frowned at Crowley's levity. "Wait here. I'll clean it up."

"I did steal it and dump it on my own," he replied, thankfully leaning against the door rather than following Aziraphale. "I can probably get it cleaned up without-"

"I will handle the Holy Water," he said as he prowled deeper. Dark rooms with minimal decorations, the designs recognizable from the background the last time he picked Crawly's outfit. Had Crowley decorated the same way? Flipped through a few magazines and snapped his fingers? It looked like a set, not a home. "If the need arises, you may tidy away any Hellfire - even if only coals.'" Behind him, still in the entrance, Crowley made a noise of agreement. He certain made a lot of noises, and Aziraphale would enjoy learning them all once certain he was safe.

The remains Ligur left behind amounted to a melted bucket, a few wet clothes and a damp spot on the floor. Largely normal water, hardly concentrated enough to be dangerous. Still, droplets of Holy Water remained, mostly splashed nearby. A snap of his fingers sent the mess elsewhere and removed any lingering blessing on the ground blessed with Holy Water. Honestly, a demon lived here; a half bucket of Holy Water could hardly purify the entire flat, but better safe than sorry. He wouldn't be reckless with Crowley's well being.

"I could've just cursed it."

With an undignified yelp as he jumped, Aziraphale gawked then glared and set his shoulders. "I told you to wait."

"I did wait!" Throwing up his hands, he stepped away from where he'd been leaning over Aziraphale's shoulder. "Longer than I've ever waited when anybody else said to! And I didn't touch anything, just like you said." He raised his brows at the last, ducking his head - as if he could placate Aziraphale so easily when he'd not considering the risk to himself at all. Well, the not considerable risk to himself given the small amount of Holy Water remaining, which Crowley may already be aware of. But STILL! ...and, more annoyingly, Aziraphale's frown softened and he started to smile at the unrepentant demon.

With a huff, Aziraphale pulled his vest and straightened his bow tie, which prompted an enduring smile that nearly undid him. Except then he realized that fondness could hardly be for him. Had his imaginary angel the same habits, making them comfortingly familiar? Or had his movement spiked a recollection from their new memories? And if he felt like the Aziraphale of their memories, if they were fundamentally the same angel, and the imaginary angel an echo of him - them - as well, then... did it matter? Or would Aziraphale spend the next six thousand years comparing himself to an echo?

"Right! I'll show you the plants!" Too loud, moving too quickly, his face already turning red, Crowley spun back the way they'd come. How long had Aziraphale been staring at him? How long had Crowley been staring at him? Who had forgotten to reply to the last comment? Had that been him? "They're the only thing worth see-" He stopped so suddenly Aziraphale stepped into him and caught his arm to keep them both upright, Crowley otherwise unmoving.

"Dear boy, whatever is the matter?"

Not even a stutter. Perfectly still, he stared past dark green leaves to the end of the hall, which appeared deserted. Opening his angelic eyes, Aziraphale checked and saw no angels or demons, or humans, nearby or approaching, nor sensed any threats that would harm even a human, let alone them.

"Crowley? What is it?"

"There's... That's- It's..." Most of his false starts couldn't even count as words, though he did manage something that hinted at 'not mine' among them.

Peering around the tall demon once more, Aziraphale searched the hall, but the only decoration he saw was an oversized golden eagle with wings outspread. The style mostly fit the minimalist decorations, at least fit well enough he'd not notice it if Crowley hadn't reacted. A glance to Crowley's face confirmed he stared at it, unless his eyes focused elsewhere, which Aziraphale couldn't tell through the guards on the sides of the glasses, but his whole body faced it. If it struck Crowley so forcefully, yet wasn't his, then it must be from their shared memories and Aziraphale should be able to place it.

Unable to recall any notable visits to Crowley's flat, yet certain the statue couldn't be more than a few centuries old, he skimmed though their past for any encounter when it might've stood out. The red on his checks hinted it was somehow embarrassing, likely not a memento from-

"It's from that church, isn't it? The one you blew up, with the Nazis." At the twitch on Crowley's lips, Aziraphale nearly snatched away the glasses. Especially from this angle, they made guessing his thoughts impossible. The situation had been harrowing, doubtlessly, and honestly ridiculous, yet it was hardly unique in their encounters, not the first time either saved each other. "What is the matter? It seems a bit odd to see it here, perhaps, and I'm frankly surprised it survived at all, but I don't understand why you-"

"You don't?" Once again fluid, Crowley spun to face him and the hall felt too small, and Aziraphale clenched his fists to keep from snatching the glasses away. How could he tell what Crowley was thinking when he wouldn't _say_ anything? He couldn't decipher between fear and desperation, irritation and frustration. "You really don't understand?"

"Well," he said slowly, pausing the exchange enough to draw a breath, and not point out that Crowley just interrupted him saying as much. If Gabriel ever addressed him like this, rather, when Gabriel had questioned him like this, he wilted and stuttered, yet for all of Crowley's intensity, he didn't feel threatened. Even as he towered over him, Aziraphale wanted to sooth him rather than flee, and even more so to see his eyes.

"No, I suppose I really don't. We'd gone centuries without seeing each other before, though it might've been the first time since the Arrangement began. Situations went unexpectedly poorly more times than either of us would like to admit, I believe, and I was quite surprised you arrived. I supposed we had fought the last time we'd spoken." The more he explained those memories, the more they felt like his own, though his own remained as clear as ever. As if he lived two lives simultaneously, neither fully aware of the other, both so similar yet so many very important details drastically different. It'd be no different for Crowley, best of friends yet strangers.

"You saved my life, figuratively, before as well." They already talked about this on the bus, it shouldn't be such an issue now. But perhaps the difference between mulling over the conversation and facing a statue. With a smile, he tried to lighten the mood. "Did you keep a memento from each, of them? Do you have the chains from the Bastille?"

"No, of course not! We weren't even thanking each other!"

"We've never thanked each other," he agreed, though, they did, but they said they didn't or refused to accept it, or pretended to refuse to accept it. "Wait, after you saved the books. When you handed them to... oh..." Reviewing memories from front to back, jumping between events, he reached the obvious answer immediately, yet, chronologically, he never even allowed himself to consider the question. Surrounded by fire and broken wood, Aziraphale had realized how deeply and intensely he cared for Crowley, and Crowley kept the only witness.

"Oh," he murmured, glancing guiltily to the statue and then down, the hallway again acutely narrow, and swallowed.

"Bingo." Face still red, Crowley wouldn't look at him either. Slightly ridiculous, of course, they both came by these memories only this afternoon, neither of them stood in the church, not really. Instead, all Aziraphale felt was the overwhelming relief from when he realized Crowley walked into a church to save him coupled with far more intense emotions when their hands touched as he received the books. None of that was _his_ experience, yet it... He didn't know what to do with this.

"I bought it," Crowley blurted, an aside to fill the threatening silence as they both dealt with knowledge not, entirely, their own. "Too. On my own. It's mine but, not really. I didn't have a reason, just saw it and thought 'I'll get that.' No reason, just a lark. At some random auction, one of those war things, wasn't important, just filling time. Don't know if the church blew up or not, just that it'd been in a church and wasn't it a joke to have it in a demon's flat afterward? Thought I'd be..." But he couldn't finish the through. That moment, Aziraphale's epiphany had struck Crowley so strongly, not only had he ensured he added the statue to his collection, it echoed into the reality without Aziraphale, without an epiphany. What should've been influenced what had been.

"Oh," Aziraphale whispered once more. Crowley hadn't mentioned if he underbid, or overbid, but a war thing must've been a charity auction, and they likely saw any bidding as a blessing. In those memories, Aziraphale barely noticed the statue. How many religious regalia had he seen in his lifetime? Either of them? Though he'd noticed it behind the Nazis, they hardly mattered either. All his attention had been to the aisle and the demon prancing about it, and the echo into his reality hadn't any object to stick to. An imaginary demon, no matter how important Crawly had been to him, couldn't hold the weight of love he felt for Crowley. In saving Crowley, and himself, from the bomb, he'd forgotten his books. He couldn't imagine a more persuasive argument for the demon standing before him.

"You're real, right?" Crowley reached as he asked, begging, attention not on Aziraphale's face but his jacket and vest. "All this? It's gonna stay like this, right? You'll stay? You're real?" His eyes flicked up once, barely visibly above his glasses, when his hands paused inches from his vest. Daring a smile, probably looking no more certain than he felt, Aziraphale raised his brows and tilted his head, allowing Crowley whatever he wanted. He wanted to give Crowley everything he could want.

With care and tenderness Aziraphale never witnessed from another immortal being, Crowley smoothed his labels, ran his hands down the velvet of his vest, touched several of the buttons and rested his fingers on his bow tie. When he paused there, the whole of existence seemed to stop, and glanced up, eyes visible in the shadows of his glasses. Breaking away with a stiff nod, he stepped back too quickly, backing into the wall behind him as he dropped his arms. The hall really wasn't wide enough for this conversation.

"Yes," he said, agreeing to everything. Everything Crowley said already and everything he'd suggest next. Nonsense, probably. Gabriel wouldn't stand for it, but Gabriel just missed Armageddon and wouldn't have time to annoy Aziraphale tonight.

Just as he began to smile back, Crowley started and glanced aside, his next words running into each other. "Stay in this reality, I mean, not here, in this flat, in the hallway. This is just for now - tonight. Once it settles, you'll find someplace your own. Not that you have to leave, not kicking you out, and we have Heaven and Hell, they'll have something to say about the whole thing. Silly question anyway. Only one reality now, don't think Adam can change it up again."

"Ah, indeed," Aziraphale interjected before Crowley rambled to another point, undoing whatever implications Aziraphale thought he might grasp. A reluctant but polite host? An eager but uncertain one? Everything, and nothing, had changed and they'd so much to adjust to. "Melding realities was likely only possible while at the peak of his power. With Armageddon past and Mr. Young Adam's father, rather than Satan, pulling apart our realities is far beyond any living being. I will remain real, as will you, and within the same reality for... well, for the rest of Eternity, I suppose."

"Better than the Sound of Music," Crowley offered, his voice light as he shoved his hands into his tiny pockets, yet Aziraphale was certain that smile didn't reach his eyes.

"My dear," he said, stepping forward, the narrow hall hardly any distance to cross, and drew those hands out, holding them together in his, "I believe the rest of Eternity with you will be superior to anything Heaven, Hell or God Herself could offer." He hadn't six thousand years of friendship with this demon, he'd six thousand years of loneliness softened only with an imaginary echo of this demon.

"Yeah?" Crowley asked. Aziraphale's emotions were too strong to decipher Crowley's, but he didn't yank his hands free or turn away.

"Indeed, I..." Except staying wasn't enough. They hardly had room to move and Crowley's single word question could be a dodge. Returning a step away, he'd have released Crowley's hands but he kept hold. "Of course, that would require you to spend Eternity with me and there are no angels who would recommend my company."

"They've no taste," he said, and tugged Aziraphale closer. For a moment, it seemed he would embrace him again, but he began to raise joined the others, keeping them all together. "I'm not winning any popularity contests, downstairs or upstairs. I think we're doing okay here."

Uncertain how to reply, caring only that Crowley pulled him back, Aziraphale simply looked at him, which meant looking through his own reflection. "Could - Could you... Could I see your eyes? Would it-"

"Right." Releasing one hand, he snatched them from his hand and tossed them, letting the clutter on the floor as he grabbed Aziraphale's hands again. "Sorry, I didn't think-"

"No, no reason to apologize," he whispered. Fully yellow, Crowley's eyes spoke more eloquently than he could and they focused entirely on Aziraphale. "Thank you."

"They not to much? I can... I can get the whites back."

"No, dear." He rested his palm against Crowley's face and traced his thumb under his eye. "Don't change anything. You're lovely just like this." These were the yellow eyes he always imagined in Crawly, only real and independent of his own mind. They wouldn't disappear if Aziraphale became distracted, Crowley's eyes didn't depend on Aziraphale's attention to watch him. For the first time, a being who could truly understand the extent of thousands of years wanted to spend them with Aziraphale, resting his face in Aziraphale's hand.

"Tell me what you want," Crowley said, breaking a silence Aziraphale hadn't even noticed. A crinkle around those beautiful eyes worried him though, Crowley's becoming more attentive. "Do you want me to miracle up the Bastille's chains? Order oysters? Do you want to call me Crawly or-"

"What? No. No, Crowley," he spoke his name to clarify it, to identify him. "No, Crowley, I want you, this you. Not an imaginary echo, not the demon who befriended an angel in the garden. I wasn't there either. I want the you to pair with me, not them. I want you."

"No, you..." He pulled away, turning his head so Aziraphale dropped his hand, but he still held his other and wouldn't relent it. "You really don't, Aziraphale, I promise. I'm not as daring as him, not as nice. I did whatever Hell told me to and made sure I never risked doing anything they'd not approve of. Any little thing I could use to prove I was the demon they wanted me to be. There's a reason the staff here hated me; I wasn't going to risk a demon showing up in my base and finding the humans liked me. I made damn sure they hated me, just in case Hell sent a messenger, even tough Hell never sent messengers. I stiffed them on tips and made snide comments about their hair just so they'd scowl at my back even though there wasn't any real risk. Not like me in those memories, when I'd just shrug off Hell's opinions. I was always good at lying to them, both times, but I still wouldn't risk it. Hell isn't any different, but I am. I never saved you, Aziraphale, and I don't know if I would've-"

"You did." He pulled their hands to his chest, keeping him close. "You did save me, already you have. You stood up to Gabriel and Heaven with me. No one has ever stood with me before, but you placed yourself right there, on my side against your side. It wasn't just paperwork you spared me from then. Then you stopped time, at my request, because we'd never be able to talk otherwise. And we _have_." Stumbling from one topic to another, yet really talking. "And you invited me here, with you. You helped save everyone, all of Earth, because Adam is only a child, even if he was the Antichrist, and he needed help defying Heaven and Hell. You gave him the space and encouragement to face down his satanic father. You're worried about what a few humans used to think of you, but I know four adults and four children, as well as one angel, who think very well of you."

His lips twitching, but eyes still steady, Crowley struggled for a reply, an objection or dodge, and if he thought about it he might mention Shadwell, who never thought well of anyone. Before that, Aziraphale best admit his own truth as well.

"I'm not the same as those memories either, Crowley. When there were two of us, I could be... slightly foolish, slightly ridiculous. We could protect each other. I'm not as trusting, or brave. So many of those things I did are absolutely terrifying, or mortifying. The things I tried when we were together, not just the fashions and food, I never dared and I missed so much to ensure I pleased Heaven. When I knew you would accept me as I was, I could challenge and explore, perhaps in a way you could as well. Instead, I'm more pragmatic and careful. I'm sure I would rather frustrate that Crowley, I probably went even slower." In no interest in slow now, except they should really sort all this out first, and he would need to find a new place so he didn't crowd Crowley, and there was Heaven and Hell to still deal with, and... And he'd likely go even slower.

With a laugh, Crowley pulled their hands to his lips and kissed Aziraphale's fingers, more than up to the challenge of speeding them along. "The demon needs the angel to tempt him to kindness, and the angel needs the demon to promise him acceptance." They'd centuries to solve their troubles, really, and no reason to spend all of tonight worrying at them.

"And we could both, I assume, do for better company to drink with," he added, agreeing to lighten the mood. When he pulled his hands away, fear flicker in Crowley's eyes, but he only did so in order to open his arms as he stepped forward. His shaky laugh relieved, his demon embraced him as well, tucking his head into his neck. Though Aziraphale probably squeezed harder than would be safe for a human, when he felt tears on his skin, he knew he'd not caused them. The same dampness touched his own eyes, both still here, both still real, and neither of them what should've been. With a sigh, he leaned his head against Crowley's and relaxed.

"Don' move," Crowley mumbled. "Gonna sleep right 'ere."

"All night," he promised. "All of the coming century if you like."

Crowley jerked back to stare at him. "Really?"

"Honestly, I've never simply stood for such a length of time before, but with you in my arms, it's likely to be enjoyable." Hearing his own words, he offered a smile to apologize for his boldness. "However, that is, we should first discuss the possible retaliation-"

"Yeah, right, but- you'll stick around?"

"Yes, um, our side, right?" That was what they meant, hadn't it? They finally had a real friend to count on, to hold, to relax with, rather than-

Crowley grinned, his entire face animated. "Yeah, that's right. You and me, our side. No more foils, no more imaginary company." Though he stepped away and Aziraphale released him, he didn't feel as if he lost him. "We should probably sit down to talk rather than stand in the hallway? Oh - the tour, quick, it's - that's the kitchen, the plant room, the office, the bedroom, and the couch is back..." He trailed off, having nearly completed spinning in a circle, to stare at the statue in the opposite end of the hallway. Two angels by the wings, wrestling in the- or an angel and a demon in the nude.

"I did not buy that one," Crowley declared, turning entirely red. "That is not in my flat. That one isn't mine. What is with me and statues? Can't I do anything that isn't- You!" He wheeled on Aziraphale. "That's all your fault, just so you know." He searched for something more to say, but there wasn't any story behind this one, not but the two entwined winged humans. Waving him the way they'd come, Crowley retreated to the kitchen with dire threats about his whiskey stock.

Smiling despite himself, Aziraphale approached the statue only to halt. He would never discover the differences between his bookshops. Uncertain what caused the fire, he couldn't know if his own shop had burned, only that it no longer mattered. Only one book survived and they returned it to Anathema. Staring at the statue before him, he noted the distinctly unappealing arm lock and the shoulder driven into the angel's back, the demon winning over the angel. While certainly suggestive, if Crowley's bosses had shown up, they'd note nothing amiss about the decoration. Assuming the angel and demon switched places, Gabriel would adore it. While Crowley himself, upon spotting it for the 'first' time, had stuttered and fled.

Smiling despite himself, Aziraphale retreated to the couch.

Unlike he always imagined from the pictures, he found the couch rather comfortable. Crawly would approved. He would approved of the whole flat, in fact, including the statues. The fight more than the eagle. Would he have approved of Crowley himself? How would his imaginary friend feel when the real demon replaced him? Especially when Aziraphale was so grateful he could touch Crowley, as he couldn't Crawly. And his poor demon, told off for being fake when he'd been right about stopping Armageddon and about Heaven not caring to save Earth. Without him, Aziraphale would've accepted Heaven's directive about Armageddon; without him and his questions, questions that'd not entirely originated in Aziraphale, his life would've been so empty. For six thousand years, he'd been real enough to Aziraphale and now he thought of him only to compare him unfavorably to Crowley.

Could he summon him once more? Should he? Obviously, he could, he was a figment of Aziraphale's imagination! Except, if he was an echo of Crowley, perhaps Aziraphale couldn't recall him. Except he'd not been an echo of this Crowley, but the one from their shared memories. Had Adam mixed all three realities together, or just shuffled their two into one? If that Crowley still existed, continuing with his Aziraphale, always and still a pair, then might Crawly still exist as well? It'd not be the first time he didn't show up, especially when Aziraphale wasn't alone, though he often commented on whatever happened while gone. He might have an opinion about all of this.

If Crawly remained, then so would Crowley's angel. What would his friend think of the real angel? Why was it taking Crowley so long to get their drinks?

"Aziraphale?" 

"Yes?" He stood. Crowley never named his angel, if he called, then he must want Aziraphale. "Do you need-"

"Ngk, just..." The tall demon walked into the room a moment later, carrying two decanters and two glasses with ice, which Aziraphale quickly accepted from him. "Sorry, 's just," he paused, setting one decanter on a side table and poured a rather healthy dose in each glass.

"Just what?" Aziraphale asked. Crawly never hedged like this, not unless he was trying to talk Aziraphale into something. Crowley could keep secrets in a way Crawly couldn't; he could have secrets.

"Nothing." Setting this decanter aside as well, he reached for his glass but Aziraphale wouldn't release it.

"Crowley," he began, leaning into the proper name while waiting for an explanation. It wasn't fair to Crawly, imaginary or echo, but Crowley was entirely his own demon, entirely a demon standing before Aziraphale.

"You're so quiet, thought... 'S not so different from being alone." He raised his eyes as he finished, the fear so deep within them. Because, other than a statue, his flat would be entirely the same. Everything about it that announced Crowley as a real for Aziraphale, hid Aziraphale from Crowley.

"I'm afraid I've spent too long ensuring no one would notice me to make a make much noise, but next time I can join you in checking your store of whiskey. Or," he added, allowing a smile to comfort them both, "is that why you brought two?"

His vulnerability reassured, Crowley smirked and winked. With the pretense of an exasperated huff, Aziraphale smiled fondly and allowed him to take his glass, building his own confidence.

"If I may have a request in a similar vain?"

"Anything you want, it's yours."

"Do let me finish before you agree? Or is that too much to ask?"

With a noise, he shrugged.

"If it isn't too much trouble," he began and paused. Though certain Crowley would agree with him, he couldn't quite believe anyone would agree to any of his requests. Giving up, he held out his hand and, after a moment, Crowley set his own within it. "I could so easily hear my imaginary friend, and all but see him at times, but I could never touch him. I never created a flat for him to live in, though I often pretended he'd better things to do than keep me company at all times. If I had imagined a place for him to live, it would have looked similar to your flat. Different touches, perhaps, yet... I like to feel that you're real, my dear."

"I couldn't ever have anything better to do than keep you company," he declared, tugging Aziraphale's hand to his heart and raising his glass. His face too warm, Aziraphale clinked their glasses to complete the toast, wondering if Crowley really meant that or only played on words in the moment. 

"Yes, we... We need to talk and..." He had a point, before all these other thoughts invaded, and they needed to confront it tonight, before either Heaven or Hell could react. "Well, you know Beelzebub better than I. Would they take advantage of an introduction at Armageddon to team up with their counterpart in order to ensure your absolute destruction because Armageddon didn't happen?" Crowley took another long drink, refilled his glass and topped off Aziraphale's before pulling him to the couch.

"Messing up Armageddon as a starter, never mind lying about the Antichrist for eleven years, destroying Ligur, and helping Adam deny Satan." Without spilling his drink, he plopped down in the exact center of the couch, and once Aziraphale sat, snuggled up against him, one leg sprawled across the couch. Not what he imagined with his request, hoping for little more than a continued touch, and Crowley's eagerness to embrace all of it caught in Aziraphale's lungs, making breathing a bit of a chore. Taking a sip of whiskey, he tried to center his thoughts.

"I don't know if this will help us think."

"I'm already thinking way better," Crowley promised, squirming so he could see Aziraphale better. "And, yes, definitely. Who's their counterpart?"

"Gabriel. And the way of Ligur's destruction worries me the most. They will assume I gave you the Holy Water-"

"You did."

"-and choose a similar collaboration in punishing us."

"Wot? How'd they- Wouldn't they- Can they do that?"

"I fear they're rather eager to destroy us."

"Yeah, but, working together? Beelz might get away with it, sure," he agreed, gesturing as he ranted, "they're a demon and can lie to make themself look good, but what about Gaby? Micky would- In my... um... my past Micky would've called it 'consorting with the enemy' and labeled him a traitor, doubly unfit to lead Heaven. She's been after his job ever since she didn't get it."

"Oh goodness. Truly? What a state Heaven must've been in."

"Naw, Uriel's the clever one. They were always fighting over which of them were in charge while she ran things. Nothing got done without her say so."

"Is that why you use her full name?" he asked, trying to make it into a tease, just an innocent observation. A clever angel would sit far better by Crowley's side, and Uriel was always so confident and put together.

"I used to call her Ure, but it sounds too much like 'you're' now and that just got annoying. Never got to say their names to their faces, for the best. They'd have smitten me back to the lowest level of Hell - once they recovered from the shock," he added, still smirking at an imagined victory, while Aziraphale only heard him group Uriel in with Gabriel and Micheal, no different to Crowley beyond how they affected Heaven.

"Ah. And what will you call me?" A silly distraction when they'd such an important planning ahead of them, and he tried to keep it a casual. Crowley smiled far too broadly.

"Aziraphale," he said, pronouncing each syllable as it's own word. "Six thousand years I didn't get to say your name. I'm not losing a whisper of it, Aziraphale."

Far too warm to blame it on the whiskey, his checks dimpled as he glanced away, unable to manage the adoration in the snake eyes. It didn't make any sense, that couldn't be for him.

"Aziraphale," Crowley tested it again, making it difficult to imagine he intended his affection for another. "A-zira-phale. Az-ira-phale. Azi-raphale. It's a good name. 'm glad you kept it."

"Thank you, my - Crowley." Realizing how his correction would sound too late, he began to stuttered an apology but Crowley leaned into him more, eyes slipping closed and Aziraphale's heart picked up speed as well. And crashed when he recalled what he was distracting them from. "What worries me, Crowley," he slipped his name in, hoping to lighten the next statement, "is that after commiserating at the airbase, both of them blaming both of us, Gabriel and Beelzebub will decide an exchange between them is the best way to deal with us."

"Not like their jobs are any different, so I suppose- Wait!" He shoved himself upright, turning on the couch to face Aziraphale fully and running a hand through his hair as he stared at him. "An exchange? Doing the same- Beelz shouldn't be dumb enough to let Holy Water anywhere near them, or Hell, but it'd make an example for sure, and Gaby's done worse than borrow Hellfire before." He grasped Aziraphale's shoulder with his empty hand, the other still gesturing as the whiskey sloshed. "Those wankers would destroy the only angel worth a damn. If they summon you back, you can't go. Promise me. Please." Those beautiful yellow eyes were nearly in tears. "Please, Aziraphale."

"I promise," he whispered, amazed he could endear such a reaction. Clearing his throat, he spoke more clearly. "I promise I won't. But you must promise not to risk returning Hell either."

"Done," he said, a shaky smile replacing his panic as he slouched again. "I wouldn't go back down anyway, not when I've got you up here to hold me while I sleep." As if to prove it, he closed his eyes, though he really couldn't disguise his relief. They hardly knew each other, not really, and yet...

"Unfortunately," he pressed on, once again pulling them back to the topic, "that only saves us from voluntarily embracing our destruction. Neither Heaven nor Hell are known for allowing dissidents to go unpunished. I think Agnes has our answer." He offered the burnt slip of paper to Crowley once more.

"Creative spelling?" He flipped it over, checking the back, then turned it upside down as if it might have a secret message, before returning it. "Says fire, not water, and nothing about downstairs or upstairs."

"She speaks of sides," Aziraphale said, "which covers Heaven and Hell ...and us. I was able to study her full text, apply a far wider breadth of history than her descendants, judging by the notes in the margins, and Agnes is likely referring to fire both literally and figuratively. Given she is human and fire more deadly, as well as her fate, she would see fire as the greater threat."

"And she never saw what a bucket of Holy Water can do." His eyes darted to his office doorway, even as a chill rand down Aziraphale's spine. "Right then, if anyone gets what she means, it'll be you. Books are your specialty. So how do we choose our face then? Not possessing a human, that won't protect us."

"Perhaps," he said, glancing down to his glass and swirling it. "Well, that is... It may best, overall, in handling the situation, if you're amendable, if you think it's even sensible, which is likely isn't but as a starting point, which I'm certain you'll improve-"

"Hey." Sitting up once more, more assured this time, he covered Aziraphale's hand with his own, stilling his whiskey. "Aziraphale, you're smart. Everything you suggested so far has been spot on. You don't need to hedge everything you say like that. I'm pretty sure whatever you suggest will be the best plan we can get. Agnes knew what she was talking about and you figured her out once already, you can do it again."

"It's a rather personal suggestion," he apologized and Crowley shrugged.

"Doesn't mean you're asking too much. We're in this together, both of us, and we're going to get through it, together, and we're going to have each other, together, afterward. There's no suggestion too personal to ensure that."

"Well... If we 'choose' each other's face, the other's body. Our bodies are designed to hold us, and they have for thousands of years, temporary discorporation notwithstanding. We can disguise our true nature from them and then you would face the Hellfire and I would face the Holy Water. We'll be safe."

"Huh," Sinking back into his cushion, Crowley sipped his whiskey, eyes fixed on nothing.

For all that angels dismissed their physical form's importance, they all adorned them, from clothing and jewelry to makeup and hairstyles, with more care than they gave their true forms. He'd never seen a hair out of place with any of the Archangels, which he couldn't always say about their wings. When they appeared entirely human, humans still noted the otherworldliness about them, those times when they forgot themselves and their true being seeped through. It would be enough to disguise them for a short period.

"Can we do that? Just swap?"

"It is theoretically possible," Aziraphale said, confident now that he needn't suggest anything. He could answer questions. "I'd prefer to check some of my texts but I have read them all enough. I'll need to contemplate it first. It should be similar to possessing humans, both easier and more difficult."

"Huh," he murmured again, settled against Aziraphale as he sipped his whiskey. "I've never possessed anybody before."

"I have. It's more annoying than it is challenge."

"YOU?" He sat up only to flop back. "Oh, that orange haired woman, the madame. Adam fixed you up right before. You know, when he first told me I shouldn't be there alone, I thought he meant Hell, and then I thought being the Antichrist scrambled his brain. He'd the right of it though."

Imagining him showing up at Armageddon alone, his Bentley in flames, and not even a bad plan to save the world, ready to face the Antichrist as well as Hell on the off chance he'd spot an opportunity, rather than running away, Aziraphale dared to wrap an arm around him and pull him closer. "He absolutely is."

Crowley just smirked at him. "Right then, that's our plan. They're going to pull out all the stops to screw us over, so we'll side step and mess with them. That's my favorite kind of plan. What do you want me to do while you contemplate? Pop out and collect a few books? British Museum can't object to me borrowing them when they 'borrowed' so much. Or I could-"

"Wait, Crowley. You agree? You're okay with it?" He'd hardly given any justifications yet, nor acknowledged how he could be wrong and laid out why he likely wasn't and how they could work around it, nor touched on similar alternatives he didn't favor but may still worked, nor come near to talking himself into a circling spiral of contradicts. Nor had Crowley critiqued or dismissed, or even scoffed at him. 

"Yeah, of course. Like I said, you're smart, it makes sense. If Beelz can land a fly on an Archangel, they'll take advantage of it and they gotta make a 'splash' about my punishment too - something worse than anything Hell's ever done before, something worse than Heaven did to us, otherwise you'll get demons rebelling left and right. And Gaby's a self-righteous prick, so the only thing more fun than giving stupid orders is overcompensating with punishment. The only hard part is that I'll be going up in your place and can't call him an asshole."

"Well, no," he agreed, if reluctantly, then breathed deeply before blurting: "Are you sure it's wise to trust my plan?"

"Yup. Smartest thing I've done all day." His smirk faltered. "Today's not a good baseline, neither was the past decade. Smartest thing I've done in the past century, past millennia! Trusting you is the smartest thing I've ever done," he promised. holding his eyes a moment before sitting up. "You want me to get you a book? Anything else you need?"

"You need to rest," he reminded him. "I never needed much physical rest and thinking will be well enough for me, but you have pushed yourself exceptionally hard and you often treat your body to rest. You nearly fell asleep standing up," he added. For a moment, Crowley seemed ready to argue that but then tipped his head.

"As I recall, you were holding me."

"I also recall," Aziraphale agreed, wondering if he misunderstood. "I had thought, since you need to sleep and I need to contemplate, we might do so at the same time. Together." It should be a safe suggestion, Crowley seemed so invested in 'together,' and he brightened adorably when Aziraphale said it now.

"Really?"

"If you'd be amendable?"

"Damn right, I'm amendable."

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, then decided that, considering what he offered to share with a demon, it wasn't the time to quibble over semantics. "I won't need anything," he continued, though he'd like some tea or a wine, but he wanted it in his tea cup or his wine glass. Perhaps his well worn copy of Winnie the Pooh, more to hold than read. All those were gone, however, and he would miss them less if not distracted by replacements. Besides, in the past he found the best way to recover from the lost of physical objects and old habits was to invest in new ones, and this time he'd a far better replacement than another book. "I believe you pointed out a bedroom? And those pants cannot possibly be comfortable to sleep in."

"They might be," he shot back, and stuttered when Aziraphale raised his eyes. "Well, I'm not sleeping in them to prove the point. You sure you don't want more whiskey?" He shoved himself to his feet. Recognizing the energy about him, Aziraphale relented. Thousands of different cultures, yet all recognized the importance of a host's duty and Aziraphale would deny the nervous demon if he insisted on nothing.

"I may take a decanter with me," he said. Of course, Crowley selected the unopened one, leaving his own glass aside and then stopped and held out his hand.

"We still doing the touching thing?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, with a thrill of relief even before he grasped his hand.

The bedroom was nothing less than grand, the bed large enough for several occupants and as immaculate as the rest of the flat. Nothing like Aziraphale's own bed. Since Heaven required real clothing, Aziraphale had a bedroom, though the part intended for sleeping had long ago been lost behind crates and books. He thought there was a bed beneath the stacks, one purchased near the start to appear somewhat normal, but he may have forgotten to buy one.

"I am," he admitted into the uncertain silence, "only theoretically acquainted with sleeping and less so the garments worn for it." He didn't know if he could contemplate if Crowley stripped down to nothing.

"Nothing to it." The decanter already set on the nearer bed stand, which likely indicated Aziraphale's side, one hand still holding Aziraphale's, he snapped. Respectable black pajamas replaced black top and too-tight jeans, feet bare but speckled with black or red scales, and all the accessories gone, the heavy watch on the opposite bed stand. "That work?"

"Very much so." Setting his glass next to the decanter, he snapped as well and was rewarded with a fuzzy tartan pajamas with thick matching socks.

"Really? Tartan?"

"I'm following your lead, my dear."

After a long pause, he snapped his fingers again. His pajamas became the inverse of Aziraphale's, a black background with numerous red bars of differing intensity (in place of Aziraphale's grays) and several gray-beige strips (in place of the reds). He raised his brows and tilted his head, waiting. Expecting to figure out how to swap bodies, Aziraphale couldn't get his mind around swapping pajamas. Same design, but playing up the colors? He snapped his fingers and wore solid, unexciting blue, the same pattern as Crowley's original set.

"I'm not in the mood for white, if this is okay?"

"The mood is the same color as your eyes," Crowley replied, grin huge as Aziraphale began to stutter for a better reply. He'd not even considered his eyes, not his human ones. He so rarely looked at them but they would be the first color, a color other than beige or vanilla, he reached for. "I like this mood. You'll contemplate great things in this mood." Grinning, he swung about, ready to pull Aziraphale forward, only to be confronted with the bed again and stop short. He attempted a few words, all the noises getting stuck before they left his throat. Barely recovered from his own embarrassment, he watched Crowley struggle with a fond smile. It might not be so bad to be foolish if not alone in it.

"Trouble, my dear?"

Crowley shot him a look, to which Aziraphale smiled innocently.

"I sleep sprawled wherever I land. How do you contemplate?"

"Ah, yes." Logistics. He could handle logistics. Pulling Crowley behind him, ignoring the wisdom of sending him around to the other side of the bed, Aziraphale pulled back the duvet and, with a squeeze before releasing Crowley's hand, climbed atop it so he could sit with his head against the baseboard. For any assignment longer than a day trip, if he hadn't a proper chair to get cozy in, he sat up in the bed and read until morning when humans wouldn't be overly aware of his presence. Normally he would have wine on the bedside table, and the whiskey would more than satisfy him.

Unlike all his previous assignments, instead of pulling the duvet up to cover his lap, he tossed it lower and patted the space next to him before gathering his courage and looking up to Crowley. Crowley stared back at him.

"There is an angel in my bed."

"The same angel you held hands with on the bus."

"A special angel," he agreed, starting to smile but not moving. "A real angel."

"How often was your imaginary angel in your bed?" Aziraphale asked, hoping he made a joke of it. Even though Crowley laughed, he wasn't sure either of them found it funny.

"Maybe on my bed, noting how often I slept in," he said, then tilted his head. "Occasionally you - he - even said sleeping wasn't bad for me. But never _in_ my bed."

"We are absolutely right," Aziraphale said, feeling oddly warm toward an imaginary angel. That angel cared for Crowley when Aziraphale couldn't, just as Crawly cared about Aziraphale. "And I'm encouraging you to sleep now. Come here." He padded again, realized how that would sound and added: "please."

But now Crowley's laugh was genuine, and he stepped up onto the bed before belly flopping down next to Aziraphale.

"Are you-"

Twisting, he gave him a grin and wink, and Aziraphale sighed again.

"Well, you are better versed in beds than I, but I would not imagine that the proper way to get into one."

"Definitely is, angel - my angel. You did it wrong."

"I'll endeavor to do it the Right next time." And he couldn't help but smile as his demon chose such a way to be Right. "However, now that we are both in bed and nearly settled for the night, are you still willing to touch or-"

"Yes."

He sat up in a quick motion, grabbing the duvet to drag it over both of them then dropped down closer to Aziraphale, wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in his thigh.

"S'okay?" At least, he thought that's what he asked.

"Yes. But... can you breathe?"

He hummed his reply and they didn't really need to breath. Perhaps he would shift to a more comfortable position once asleep. Gently, Aziraphale lay one arm over the arm circling his middle, and, after hesitating before he decided it'd be silly to worry about Crowley not wanting to be touched when he pressed his nose and face into his leg, he ran fingers though the red hair. Crowley shivered.

"I'm sorry. Should I not? Is it too much?"

"Naw, Aziraphale." He raised his head, playing with his name. "Do it again."

"If you're sure?" he asked, still restraining himself from sinking his fingers into the longer hair or petting down the shorter hair. "I don't want to disturb you."

"Feels good." And he hummed when Aziraphale allowed himself to relax and touch him again. With a sigh, Crowley lay down, no longer pressed as firmly against his thigh. "'Sides, you got important contemplating to do. I'm here to help out, anyway I can." But he murmured the last, the stroking quieting him. As quickly, he pressed himself up again. "And you'll be here when I wake up, right? If you want a snack or something, wake me up first, please? Before you leave?"

"Of course," he promised, holding his head and squeezing his arm with his other hand. "I will stay here until you awake. Sleep, Crowley. Rest."

"My own guardian angel," he murmured and those yellow eyes closed, body relaxing finally. " _My_ Aziraphale."

Even after his breathing evened out, Aziraphale watched him sleep. All long limbs and slender torso, constantly changing and always a thought away from a snake, the demon who wanted to be liked and hadn't dared it when his guardian angel could only befriend him as echo. But he was here now and he would not leave him. Intent to never let such moments become only memories, he turned his thoughts to the body swap.

Even if, occasionally, the angel with a real friend was simply content in the moment.


	6. Hell

**Sunday, The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives**

Crowley left early, off to inspect a bookshop he'd only visited in memories and wouldn't be the same shop Aziraphale knew, and Aziraphale wandered about his flat, attempting a last time to mimic Crowley's walk. At least he caught himself before he fell this time. That'd been the last demonic miracle Crowley performed, healing his bloody nose after Aziraphale collapsed into the table among a tangle of limbs. After they swapped, far easier in practice than theory, they gone through a few dozen mostly frivolous miracles on each other, not only tidying their appearance but ensuring they 'smelled' like either demon or angel rather than a mix. It should cover any initial interactions, if their home offices bothered checking them. If all went to plan, they could blame the intended elements of their demise, and their survival, for any of their true forms sneaking through. And, by that point, everyone should be too freaked out they wouldn't notice.

If Agnes was correct and Aziraphale understood her correctly.

Trying Crowley's saunter again, he scoffed. This blasted body was intended not only for a demon, but a snake and he'd no idea how to steer it properly with it's full mobility. He could manage a more subdued version, closer to a normal walk, and he shouldn't be sauntering about Hell regardless. As at the airbase, Crowley deferred to Lord Beelzebub, and so her wouldn't be striding about in Hell, not this time.

Waiting, he turned the TV on, using the remote rather than a miracle, and tried to get comfortable sitting on the couch while listening to the anchors talk. Perhaps Crowley lounged so drastically because his body couldn't sit properly for any length of time, or perhaps it couldn't sit properly for any length of time because Crowley lounged so drastically. Regardless, Aziraphale took to pacing through the rooms again, listening to the experts talk about everything that happened yesterday then hadn't happened yesterday, but Hell never interrupted with instructions.

A little worried how the demon would be busying himself in the bookshop, Aziraphale examined the impressive, as well as unsettling yet amusing, music collection. 'Soul Music' indeed. Would Hell be wanting these back now?

Wasting time in a flat never lived in, he started and stopped himself from snooping, instead reading the backs of the vinyls and CDs, and a few of the lyrics printed on a paper inside, tried intimidating the plants but, when he got it right, terrified them so badly he apologized, tested expressions in the mirror - both with and without the glasses - only to convince himself he couldn't get them right. He gave into temptation enough to check the fridge then the cupboards, circled the office and the bedroom without spotting anywhere to easily snoop, considered calling the bookshop only to realize he forgot the number, and finally flung himself on the couch, laying in a clutter of limbs he couldn't begin to sort out. The watch heavy on his wrist, he checked the time. Not even an hour.

After debating, they'd agreed Aziraphale needed to stay at the flat until meeting up in the park, as no demon would dare show up here after what happened to Ligur, so he'd be safest here. He just needed to wait... With nothing better to do, he returned his attention to the overly large TV and counted the tiny spots of light producing the image.

And finally he could go! Of course, he'd no time to stop for breakfast now, and nothing in the fridge looked worth eating, so he'd need to face-

The Bentley.

Adam really had put the world back together. He could almost hear Queen playing.

With a bounce to his step, he flagged a taxi, then just 'happened' to standing line for ice cream just ahead of Crowley, which meant he was slightly ahead of himself, and since they'd no reason to pretend they didn't know each other, he treated Crowley to his favorite. Crowley's favorite in their shared memories, at least, since his favorite was the same and he didn't think to ask until handing it to him. Not that Crowley commented it. As they reassured each other about the bookshop and Bentley, Crowley kept eyeing their surroundings, which Aziraphale felt he probably should be doing, but unable to sway the way Crowley did when he walked, he worried it'd be more obvious if he tried to replicate the habit.

And then they saw Death.

And then the angels were carrying away Crowley thinking he was Aziraphale.

And he barely started after them when his back exploded in pain and he hit the ground. He heard a demon, Hastur, talking.

The angels had Crowley. The demons had Aziraphale.

"Tickiety-boo."

Despite all being demons, they handcuffed him. Perhaps the handcuffs would've held a real demon, though they felt entirely mundane and therefore pointless. Following Hastur and Dagon, he marked every demon he recognized, prepared to hold them all personally responsible for any cruelty intended for Crowley. Unlike the Aziraphale who shared the past six thousand years with Crowley, this angel was always on his own and forever had to deal with whoever they sent up to Earth. He didn't spot Squirmy.

Unsure how to replicate Crowley's cool confidence, it turned out how only needed to start talking. Then he couldn't stop with the commentary. "Nice place." "Could do with pot plants." "Rubber of bridge? Barbershop quartet?" "What appears to be the problem?"

No stuttering, not fidgeting, just constant quips as if recalled for an annoying reprimand rather than kidnapped, and he'd the fortress of Crowley's glasses to protect him. When Hastur began listing Crowley's crimes, Aziraphale had to fight to keep his smirk from expanding and his comments from inflaming. Fortunately, Beelzebub - Lord Beelzebub - remained bored, not giving into any temptations, which meant no random violence. Knowing from his own personal past how poorly the three of them managed without Crowley, he could hardly take any of their accusations seriously.

And then Micheal showed up.

Micheal in Hell. Unusual an understatement, though it proved he and Agnes had the right of it, and that Crowley remained undiscovered. And then, despite damning Crowley for dumping Holy Water in self defense, Hastur dropped that little demon into the tub! For no reason! As if Michael would lie! She may be a violent general who just betrayed Heaven by giving Hell Holy Water, even though she would have Gabriel's permission, but she wouldn't lie! They'd been no reason to... But they'd decided they'd reason to do the same to Crowley and Micheal would've helped him.

Then Beelzebub asked if he had anything to say.

"It's just," he began, frowning from the tub to the prince. None of them deserved his words. They never deserved Crowley's words. They never deserved Crowley. "This is a new jacket and I'd hate to ruin it. Would you mind if I took it off?"

Not waiting for permission, he pulled the handcuffs off, silly things that wouldn't impress any of Aziraphale's magic teachers, and carefully shrugged his jacket off. The handcuffs he tossed onto a convenient chair, but the jacket he folded carefully. What Crowley started off yesterday wearing had, in fact, been tailored, but they'd been ruined by the ride in the Bentley and he declared materializing a new set would carry a better demonic scent than cleaning the old ones. Besides, he'd passed those into the ether last night when changing into his pajamas. Though Aziraphale had snapped into pajamas, he had sent his suit into Crowley's closet, pressed and laundered. Crowley was wearing it right now.

He folded the jacket over the back of the chair. Unsure what Hell would expect of him when they came up with their own plan, Crowley claimed that so long as he started stripping no one would be prepared to react. It'd be wiser for Aziraphale to start, just in case they decided to insult him by stripping him themselves, on the off chance not all of Crowley's scales showed up. This morning, while they talked, Aziraphale silently pledged they would not lay hands on Crowley's body, or Crowley, ever again.

"You've no idea how much humans pay for these," he told Hastur, who Crowley had mentioned took and crushed his glasses before burning up in the M25, as he removed them now, folding them and setting them gently next to the handcuffs. The silver tie followed, hung on the chair's edge. Feeling all the demons' eyes on him, through the glass as well as he judge, prosecutors and guards, he swiveled his hips as he pulled the shirt of his head, enjoying the sensation of Crowley's body moving far too much. Spotting his undershirt, really a bathing suit, several of them grunted, though it could as easily be suspicion as disappointment.

Setting a foot on the chair's edge, he started untying it. "The shades are even more than the shoes," he added to Hastur, who was glowering at him in stunned revulsion. Real shoes Crowley had promised, which rather implied Crowley had fake shoes, or perhaps didn't always require shoes. Didn't matter now, except that Aziraphale could remove them, already working on the second. Thankfully, current styles required barely any layers in clothing, which meant the demons hadn't time to recover enough to interrupt.

The pants they discussed before even swapping bodies and Crowley claimed he loosened them, but then had to do it again or Aziraphale wouldn't be able to walk regardless Crowley's hips. Even now, he wiggled ridiculously to get them over Crowley's slender thighs and needed to tug them off his calves and over his feet. Not exactly cool, but he certainly still had everyone's completely attention. As a last touch, he pulled up his socks. He happened to know it accented his calves, as well as hid any missing scales, just as the bathing suit did. For all he just undressed in front of them, he showed little skin.

Finally, he turned to the Prince of Hell, leaning on one hip and tilting his head. "You sure about this?" He barely kept himself from calling him Beelz.

With a start, mouth opening then closing before they huffed, Beelzebub sat up in their chair and scowled. "Get. In." With a snort, they turned to the guards. "Throw him in!" Simultaneously, the guards started forward and bulked, too aware what any droplets would do to them. Aziraphale held up his hands.

"I've got it." He strolled to the foot of the tub, spread his arms wide, and flopped backwards. Flopping as Crowley turned out to be ridiculously fun, no wonder he did it so often, even if the porcelain tub couldn't catch him as gently as a bed.

Water splashed everywhere, demonic miracles hissed as they evaporated from his skin, demons shrieked in shock and pain, and Crowley's body completely lacked the cushioning of Aziraphale's. With a huff at pains he couldn't yet heal, he pulled himself up and propped his legs on either side so his socks wouldn't squish. The demons kept screaming.

"A little chilly for a bath, you know," he quipped, surprised at the silence as soon as he started speaking. He only thought he had their complete attention earlier, he didn't think anyone here except himself breathed, even those on the other side of the glass. A flick of his wrist sent a spray of water at it and, even though the glass protected them, they lept away, only to huddle closer a moment later. They did the exact same then the next several times, drawing away with gasps and shrieks only to push forward again.

"I don't suppose, anywhere in the nine circles of Hell, there's such a thing as a rubber duck?" He splashed again, the demons on his right, behind the mirror, kept up their act, terror and fascination. When he turned his attention to his judge and prosecutors, he swirled the water with his left hand, waiting. Before he could lose his nerve, he piled all his confidence into his next words, occasionally tossing water at the window to remind himself of his power here.

"So... you're probably all thinking... 'if he he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?' And very, very soon," he paused to raise Crowley's beautiful, fully yellow eyes to them and smiled wider than their fear, "you're all going to get the chance to find out."

"He's bluffing," Hastur growled too quickly, as if he'd not panicked when Ligur melted or hesitated when confronted with a plant mister, or almost believed Crowley about the Dark Council, or been trapped in an outdated answering machine, or burned up in the Bentley. In the past twenty-four hours, he'd successfully called Crowley's bluff only once. "One demon against all of Hell. We can take him."

"Shut it! He's going to cauze a riot," Beelzebub snapped before Aziraphale could ask if Hastur said the same to Ligur. They stood and waved at the demons beyond the glass. "What are you all looking at! Nothing to zee here! Get out!" Not that they approached, keeping a wide space between the tub and themself.

A _ding_ announced Michael's return, still wearing that blouse with those pants, which must be mimicking a fashion Aziraphale couldn't recognize, and carrying the same small craft to hold all the Holy Water.

"I came to bring back the - Oh Lord!" She stopped in her tracks, her mouth open and eyes wide. The Archangel who, in her reality, lead the ambush against him only yesterday and brought Holy Water to Hell, stared at _him_ as if he'd done something wrong. Aziraphale smiled widely at her.

"Micky, _duuuuude_ ," he drew the word out as his irritation gave way to worry. She shouldn't be shocked, not if Crowley survived Hell Fire. She should be carrying the story of Aziraphale's survival or complaining that Hell faked their Holy Fire. Not even Gabriel would sacrifice an angel to test it, and if he tried, the others would stop him. Appearance mattered most to them, Aziraphale was now understanding. Thousands of years doing as they required, justifying every order, but looking back on the life he shared with Crowley, and comparing it to the one he lived alone, made it undeniably clear what Heaven desired. But his revelations were old, by a whole day. He needed to know why Micheal was shocked.

But he couldn't ask, he couldn't deal with her answer just yet. Burying his concern behind as much lethargy as he could muster, picturing Crowley's movements, he stretched out an arm. "Do us a quick miracle, will you? I need a bath towel?"

Her mouth dropped open and she handed him a pristine, white towel. All Grace, he accepted it magnanimously, though he didn't thank her. He wouldn't thank her.

"I think," he said, eyeing Beelzebub as his voice dropped dangerously, the threat entirely for Crowley trapped in Heaven, "it would be best for everyone involved if we were left alone in the future. Don't you?" He waited until Beelzebub, Dagon and Hastur nodded, ensuring Crowley's future safety, then looked to Michael and raised his brows. She also nodded, and he needed to bit his tongue to keep from asking after 'his angel.' He couldn't push it now. He did know Crowley would survive the Hell Fire and, if they kept him after, then they could imagine Crowley became an avenging angel in order to rescue Aziraphale. But he couldn't push it while practically naked in a bathtub. Instead he quirked a smile at them.

Worried about getting out of the tub, he rediscovered Crowley's flexibility. Swinging his legs around to one side, he heaved himself out and the whole of him followed, even if he wobbled. His socks mostly remained try, or not squishy wet. All his threatening splashes had left puddles on the floor he now stepped in, but he didn't miracle himself dry. The bath washed away all of Crowley's curses, and the way they stared they'd recognize his miracles as holy and could realize the trick.

Instead, he toweled off quickly, throwing out a few suggestions about decorations and lighting, as if he rushed because their poor taste annoyed him. Dry clothes over wet, but those ridiculous jeans actually pulled on easier when he was damp. "Things we do to look good," he joked as he finally buttoned his shirt, and paused to give them all a look and shrug at what he saw. "Or not." One mildly sodden foot into a shoe and then the other, and he was finally grabbing that silver thing and dropping it over his neck, shaking out the glasses to slide them on, all of Hell easier to take in without the hash fluorescent lights at full intensity.

Before, it seemed odd Crowley would bother with the shades in Hell, however they hid any emotional response as well as protected his eyes. Familiar with the sterile, open office of Heaven, Aziraphale couldn't imagine Hell implementing a worse office plan. Of course, he always assumed Hell would be worse, it being Hell and Heaven being Heaven, but having witnessed both of them, he recognized the truly were nodes at opposite ends of the same spectrum. And he wanted nothing to do with either, ever again.

"I'll see myself out," he said, jerking a thumb in the direction they'd come, then realized he should seem to be enjoying this, not rushing away. "Unless you need me for something else? You all seem so distressed. Would a hug help?" He said it all ironically, even with Holy Water soaking through his clothes. When he flicked his wrists as he opened his arms, droplets sprayed and the few that hit the demons hissed on contact. Not enough to hurt them, unfortunately, but enough to get his point across and excuse his staying sodden. "What do you say Hastur? Call it even?" He offered his hand and Hastur fell over as he rushed away.

Lord Beelzebub didn't even order him out, not with 'Crowley' soaking wet and a tub of Holy Water in their small room. Deciding he best not risk their cover by pursuing Hastur, he pulled down his glasses to wink and strode out. Not until up the escalator and outside the building did he dry himself, but even once in the taxi and riding to St. John's he needed to count to breath clearly. In his own past, Crowley had seen the worst of Gabriel; in fact he'd said Gabriel did worse than destroy an angel in Hellfire, even if he never teamed up with a demon. Now that he decided to destroy Aziraphale, when the Hellfire failed would he do something worse? Crowley could use the Hellfire against them, it was even more innate to demons than Holy Water to angels. He would be fine.

He must be fine.

Not about to jog through the park again, even less certain of Crowley's tangle of limbs than when he attempted to jog with Gabriel, he managed a good stride.

And there was Aziraphale's favorite park bench, and there was Crowley and they were both still here, neither of them ended, just like the world.

"I would come here," he mentioned, as still as Crowley, both of them dealing with their worry and shock, "even on my own, to have a place to think. You?"

"Yup. Ducks won't remember us on our own, just together."

"Not a bad way to remembered." He drew in a deep breath, feeling far to awkward sitting properly in this body yet uncertain how to sprawl. Crowley slouched abhorrently in his body.

"Do you think they'll leave us alone now?" Crowley asked.

"At a guess," Aziraphale said, drawing it out and yet unable to feel any optimism after seeing Micheal in Hell after she attacked him for partnering with a demon, "they'll pretend it never happened." If it never happened, then they'd not been wrong and he couldn't imagine them admitting to being wrong so they must pretend it never happened. And how would he react if they did, he didn't know if he could obey them anymore. It all left him weary, and wanting his own body back. He'd not been without it for six thousand years and he left it twice in the past two days. "Is anyone looking?" 

Hands against his temples, Crowley concentrated then shook his head and held out his hand. "Nobody. Swap back?"

Perhaps too eagerly, Aziraphale grasped Crowley's hand and they flowed, each reclaiming their own physical form once more. And doing so completely on the first try this time. That morning, it'd taken several attempts, at one point Aziraphale struggled with three arms and one leg. Once they straightened out the number of limbs, they found hair to be bothersome and they melded their faces and hands several times. Perhaps it was returning entirely to their own body, or the familiarity of the location, but they quickly wiggled and squirmed, straightening shirts and shaking out their arms.

"Tartan collar?" Crowley grumbled as he pulled at it, red once more. "Really."

"I considered blue," he promised, eyes sparkling. It felt so good to be himself again, arms and legs and body all fighting together correctly. Sitting no longer felt awkward, his body supported as it should. He heaved a sigh of relief. "Agnes Nutter's prophecy was on the money," he added, relieved now in a way he couldn't entirely explain. Then he wiggled, the full effect hitting him. "I asked them for a rubber duck! I had Micheal miracle me a towel and called her Micky!"

His smile spreading, Crowley threw back his head and laughed, a full hearty sound of delight that echoed within Aziraphale like nothing else could. A shiver ran from his toes up and back again, he ducked his head even though he couldn't take his eyes off his demon. Dry and Holy Water free, not a scent of smoke or trace of Hellfire on Aziraphale either. They'd made it and they did it together.

"They'll leave us alone," Crowley said, his optimism enough for both of them. "for a bit. Until next time. We're in it together now," he added, his uncertainty making the statement into a question as he watched Aziraphale.

"Indeed," he agreed, and couldn't help his wiggle. "Together. They won't try to separate us now."

"Don't think they dare," he agreed, his smile back in force. "Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch."

"Temptation accomplished!" He wiggled again, then brightened more. "Do you like sushi? I know a place, but the start of this rather put me off. It's been years. I'd love to show it to you."

With a nod of agreement, Crowley unfolded himself from the bench and Aziraphale stood with him, grateful he no longer dealt with so many joints. Though Crowley must have the same number as any human, it had felt, as if he'd an extra set. Moving about, walking down the path, within his own body, he appreciated it all the more. He would never impress the likes of Gabriel, but he'd never need to, not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the first half of the last chapter, but it's doesn't look like it'll be even the first third anymore, so I thought I'd share Aziraphale's strip tease while I work on the rest.


	7. The First Months of the Rest of their Lives

**Sunday, that evening**

No champagne to toast their success, but Crowley accepted Aziraphale's suggestions, and then encouraged Aziraphale to take a few of the rolls he'd not ordered himself. In return, Aziraphale insisted he try some of his, and refused to allow a 'sample of his sake' instead. Despite his attempts they both ate well.

"Easy walking distance to your shop," Crowley pointed out as they finished, slouched sideways in the chair. "Want to pop in?"

"What about the Bentley?" he asked, too eagerly by the way Crowley raised his brows. And those blasted glasses were back in place. "You can vouch for the bookshop, but I didn't take your car for a spin. I wouldn't dare," he added, rushing on before Crowley could react. "After your last drive, you must want to reassured yourself it still works. And there's a shop a few doors down that serves wonderful-"

"Aziraphale." Leaning forward, he covered his hand with his own. "Would you rather check on your bookshop alone? That's fine, just say-"

"Oh, no, I'd far rather we stay together, at least a little longer." Though he would rather pull his hands close to his body, fortifying himself and fussing with whatever ever he touched, he couldn't give up Crowley's hand either. No one ever reached out to him, especially once they finished with any immediate concerns. Gabriel and the others simply dismissed him, often with empty congratulations, and yet Crowley still held on. "We can't be certain how long our former offices will leave us be and, if anyone should lose their temper or strike in fear, they'll likely do it sooner and we-"

"Okay, okay. Sounds good. But if it's not me hanging around, what's worrying you? Why don't you want to see the bookshop? It's far more your home than the flat's mine." Ready to refuse, as he'd not said anything about his shop and no physical place could really be home, Aziraphale sighed instead and tightened his grip on Crowley's hand.

"It's just.... There will be those difference, whatever 'statues' may have greater meaning or have appeared, but also it burned down and Adam remade it. What if something I treasure has been replaced and I can't find another? So many things have been lost to time. If I lost the entire bookshop in the fire, it would be one large blow, but I still have the world - and you," he added, because he really didn't want Crowley thinking he wouldn't give up the bookshop for him. "You're worth far more than my bookshop, and all of my collections within. So is the world. And I'm very grateful Adam remade it, I'm grateful to have it returned, in whatever state. I don't mean to undermine the gift he's given me, specifically, or- Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry!"

Without interrupting, Crowley had squeezed his hand back, which made Aziraphale realize he'd forgotten himself again. He would've crushed a human's bones. Yet when Aziraphale started to pull away, Crowley held tight, also stronger than a human.

"There's nothing to apologize for, Aziraphale." He still smiled as he said his name, and Aziraphale forgot for a moment how horrid he behaved.

"Nonsense, I have behaved poorly and must apologize for it. That's the second time I've forgotten myself. I could've hurt you."

"I report - used to report - to Hell. You're gonna have to do worse than hold my hand to hurt me," he replied, giving Aziraphale a look for that assumption than shrugged. "I like holding your hand. And when was the first?"

"When we hugged yesterday," he murmured. But Crowley still held his hand, relaxing his grip only when Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around his again, apparently happy to keep him. "I'm surprised your shoulder blades didn't collapse into your spine."

"For the record, that was among the best things to happen to me yesterday - you are the best thing that happened yesterday even with the world not ending - and you're encouraged to hug as tight as you like," he said, smirk back. "Also, snake demon. More snake than demon. Probably get stuck as a snake if I changed too often. All these extra bits," he paused, raising his other hand and wiggling the fingers, "are more idea than bones. Six thousand years, and I think they look right more than act right. Borrowing your body was an experience." Crowley's smile broadened as Aziraphale gazed at him, glad to listen to his voice and incomplete sentences indefinitely. "Wasn't wobbly enough, too steady."

"That's a kind way of saying too stiff," Aziraphale agreed, eyes twinkling. And Crowley could see his eyes. "I am glad to have it back. It stays upright with less work than yours. I don't know how you manage."

"Same."

When he said nothing more, Aziraphale frowned. What had he missed this time?

"I feel the same," Crowley corrected, his grin all mischief. He'd a thousand different ways to smile; Aziraphale wanted to categorize them all. Better when he could see those eyes while categorizing, then he would know his eyes by the smile. "Don't know how you manage. Don't know how humans manage, either. They move a lot more like you than me. Physics, biology, bodies? All weird. Ineffable." And he pronounced it as if he said Aziraphale instead, which left him no recourse except to sigh happily.

"Right! So," Crowley continued with a start, which was enough to make Aziraphale sit straighter. They'd just been gazing at each other again. "Want a spin in the Bentley? See how she drives? Find out if I or me go faster in central London?"

"You, undoubtedly," he replied, pulling his hand away with a last squeeze as he stood. "Your angel couldn't smite you for bad behavior."

"Imaginary you had quite the acidic tongue," Crowley countered, paying in cash and leaving a generous tip before Aziraphale could. He'd a vengeful smile as he added extra bills, a demon rebelling against Hell's expectations. "Always claiming Heaven would notice my extravagance and come after me. And that stopped working before the Bentley was a decade old. I mean, Heaven's done the worst thing they could do to me already, and Hell wouldn't discourage bad driving. So you'd sit there and frowned disapprovingly. However," he added with a wicked grin, and all but offering his hand once more, except not holding it out quite far enough to be obvious, "I now have someone new to show off for! I wager I'd drive faster just to see you react."

"That's reassuring," Aziraphale murmured, catching Crowley's hand before he could draw it away. Instantly, he shifted to interlace their fingers and press their palms together. Neither of them entirely certain but, it seemed, both equally grateful for the contact. "However, if you don't mind, perhaps your first offer is right. I should see the shop sooner, rather than putting it off. After all we've accomplished today, now would be the best time."

"And then we can watch Shakespeare and critique everything this reality has that's wrong with it," Crowley offered, letting Aziraphale lead the way. The most direct route rather than the one he walked when Gabriel informed him of the Antichrist, starting the whole mess as far as Aziraphale was concerned.

"Watch... Oh, I haven't a television."

Crowley laughed. "You wouldn't. But you've got the books."

"They're plays, not books. They are best seen performed."

"Angling for an invite back to mine, Aziraphale?" he asked, tugging him closer.

Beginning to stutter, he glanced away than back, and Aziraphale raised his chin. "Yes, and I'm bringing a book. Several of them. I have a whole bookshop full, you know." Crowley opened and closed his mouth several times, then settled for a grin rather than objection, his next step pressing them closer.

"You might have a few new ones to read. Don't recall their titles anymore, but I know I, from the memories, found a few for you. Few more than a few. And those are in there now. Your collection might've expanded."

"Oh." He almost stopped walking but could see the bookshop and, from the outside, A.Z. Fell & Co. looked exactly as it should. Worried over what he lost, he'd not thought of what he might gain, and Crowley would employ methods Aziraphale couldn't indulge in. A few times, Crawly had ensured texts reached Aziraphale, all long-distance accusations or through a third party. But it wouldn't do to mention that just now. "Do you think so? That was very kind of you."

"Think nothing of it. Hardly did a thing."

"Mmm... Some day, you'll have to let me know what you didn't do."

Following his own thoughts, Crowley squeezed his hands and dipped his head low enough to wink at Aziraphale over his glasses. They'd reached the bookshop, so Aziraphale just smiled back.

Without his key, which he'd not had on him when discorported and so hadn't returned when Adam remade his body, he simply opened the locked door without fuss. He released Crowley's hand as they walked in, then stood in the center of the entrance, categorizing everything before him.

Dimly, he heard the door close and the lock click. Some time after, Crowley's arm draped over his shoulders and the lanky demon leaned into him. "Well?"

"I'm terribly messy." He didn't move at all with Crowley's weight against him, too focused to react. "Adam even restored the dust."

"There's some first edition, old school children's books in mint condition," Crowley mentioned, waving deeper within. "Pretty sure those are new in all the realities except Adam's. Everything else feels in place. Nothing burned, no ash, never burned down." He made a face. "Glad that didn't happen to me. The whole Hellfire threat, to you, would've been even more terrifying. Wouldn't have just been resisting calling Gaby names while up in Heaven."

Wrenching himself back into the moment, Aziraphale looked to the demon on his shoulder. "I know regular fire can't hurt you, but I'm just as glad you didn't run into it either. You had enough fire this weekend."

"Neither the Bentley nor Heaven were as scary as the bookshop, you know," Crowley said, "even if you can walk through regular fire just fine as well. The fire made it worse, but it wasn't a threat. Realizing you weren't here was the kicker. If I hadn't just dealt with Hastur, I would've thought Hell came after you, but Hell was busy dealing with me so I worried Heaven was after you. Burning down your shop seems like a thing either side would do, really. Oh, and getting hit with that fire hose." He rubbed his chest. "Glad I didn't live through that either, talk about insult to injury. Knocked over by a blast of water inside a burning building. Sure, why not? What a day."

As he wanted, Aziraphale chuckled at his complaints, letting himself relax from the strange disappointment of not recognizing any changes. He intentionally kept the place a mess; though he claimed he'd a system, he found that true uncertainty about each book's location helped him dodge persistent costumers. They couldn't buy a book if not even he could find, while on his own he enjoyed mulling over them and coming by one unexpectedly. Even if it made inventory a trifle exhausting.

"I think, perhaps, with a couple centuries here, I may have kept it remarkably similar regardless which of me kept it. I am always myself, it seems." When he shifted to walk deeper in, Crowley's arm dropped to his waist but Aziraphale stepped away entirely. "You can open some wine if you like, you likely know my cellars as well as me. I'm likely to take in age."

"Lead away." He raised his arm grandly and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, though he smiled.

With Crowley tagging behind, Aziraphale first went to his prophesies, both relieved and disappointed to find them exactly the same, even the signatures. His misprinted bibles also appeared similar. While he scrutinizing each memorized mistake, Crowley mumbled about examining the cellars before wandering off. Lost in his reading, Aziraphale only nodded, tracing the words with a finger until satisfied, and then feeling rather foolish for it. These mistakes had nothing to do with Crowley, and all except one had nothing to do with him, and since everything outside of them remained the same, there unlikely would be any differences. The last few days had been chaotic enough, as well as the years before that. Even at the best of times, he might set a book anywhere, which meant a missing one would be perfectly normal. The place was entirely normal, exactly as it...

Exactly as it always was.

But for the faint murmur of traffic outside the bookshop, nothing disturbed the silence. No rambling voice exposing on the virtues, or their lack, of whatever topic amused him, no random assortment of noises as he lost track of his words, no incomplete comment on a nearby object, not even the steady breathing of a slumbering demon.

Eyes darting, skimming from spot to spot, Aziraphale searched for something amiss. Anything. A hat, a jacket, sunglasses. Anything that didn't belong in his bookshop, that must be demon-influenced, even something Antichrist-influenced. A sign that Adam remade the shop would mean the last two days hadn't been end-of-the-world hallucinations, that they had won and he wasn't alone. He'd twice as many memories as before, and Crowley himself, but if Heaven ever discovered Crawly, they might punish him like this. Winning - avoiding Armageddon and fooling their offices, seemed so far fetched, hardly believable. What if Crowley was no more real than Crawly?

Starting to call out, he wasn't sure which name to use. If his new friend was no more real than his imaginary friend, fake demons keeping a pitiful angel company, then-

"Meant to ask," Crowley said, two wine bottles in each hand and gesturing behind him as he turned around a shelf, and stopped dead. "Aziraphale?"

The noise Aziraphale managed sounded more like a kitten's mew than a word. Fully real, Crowley required neither an explanation nor reaction. He dipped as he came, laying the bottles on the ground, before long arms wrapped around him and pulled him close, not objecting as Aziraphale clenched his shirt and started shaking. Real. Very real. Demonic and physical and real.

"I'm here, I'm still here," he promised, fingers in Aziraphale's hair. "You're not alone. We're both here. We're in this together."

It wouldn't make any sense any other way. Unable to believe anyone could value him, Heaven couldn't dream up even an imaginary friend for him, let alone fake a real one. They couldn't conceive of an Antichrist who chose not to start the war. Heaven really didn't know anything about Earth, he reminded himself, drawing in a deep breath and smiling at Crowley's scent even without the burnt rubber to it. Hell didn't either.

"Crowley," he began, raising his face, wanting to apologize or thank him or...

"Guess I'm as quiet as you," Crowley said, fingers brushing over Aziraphale's check. "The quiet's no good."

"We'll need to get bells," Aziraphale managed, pulling his vest straight. Crowley had known the pattern to his habits better than him; he couldn't remember except he hadn't straightened his bow tie and wouldn't care if it was skewed.

"I read a thing that said cats learn to walk without ringing them. This'll work better." Taking off his sunglasses, he tucked them into Aziraphale's vest, leaving them to sit on his chest. "In case I go wandering off while in the bookshop again. I'll need 'em back before I go out, but we'll come up with something else." With a grin and a wink, he fetched the bottles from where they rolled. Touching the still warm glasses, Aziraphale breathed easily again. "Could always pop that winged wrestling statue over here," Crowley offered, gesturing with a bottle.

"Goodness no, definitely not." He'd put up with many thing, but no an angel with an elbow in their back. "I will merely accompany you when you go so we don't- That is, if you don't mind-"

"I'd be delighted, Aziraphale," he said, pausing his strides long enough to catch Aziraphale's eyes, his yellow ones entirely sincere. "Always delighted with your company."

"We'll give it a few centuries and see," he replied, not about-

"Really?" Crowley spun all the way about, nearly smacking the desk with the bottles, his entire face animated. "Really, truly, cross your heart and pinky swear?"

"Swear to... what?" Though he'd agree for the sake of Crowley's bright smile.

"Give it a few centuries," he said, more guarded, his smile diminished. "Together. We never did that in the memories. Nearby sometimes, never together."

A few centuries would be far more than the few decades he could spend with any humans he befriended. A few decades - a few years, really, more time he he spent in the presence of another angel, even if he totaled up all the time since the garden. And Crowley looked so eager, trying to be casual and not push him.

"Well, yes. A few, um, centuries together," he managed to keep his voice steady. He'd not realized he touched the glasses tucked into his vest until he raised his hand away from them, curling the first three fingers in and raising the last. "We could try. Pinky swear?"

The only reason the bottles landed properly was because a demon deposited them on the desk; they hit at all angles and would've rolled away for anyone else, not wobbled improbably and stood upright. Aziraphale barely registered their movement, Crowley already swinging back around to face him, hooking their pinkies together.

"Pinky swear," Crowley agreed, holding Aziraphale's eyes as fiercely. "A few centuries. To try."

"To start," Aziraphale dared, and was rewarded with the most beautiful smile. Then Crowley hauled him closer, by the pinky, and engulfed him in a hug, squeezing as tight as he could, which was tighter than a human could manage but not this angel, and rocked them back and forth. Held so securely, Aziraphale could almost believe everything would go well.

"Are you sure won't be bored of me?" Aziraphale couldn't help but ask when Crowley finally relaxed. Nothing sounded better than a few centuries together, yet surely Crowley would need more interesting company. "I never do anything, my dear. I hardly change."

"Good, you're perfect then." Pinkies still joined, Crowley lead him to the couch. "I'm always changing - can't stay still at all, don't know how to stop. And the humans are worse, they don't even let mountains stay unchanged. I had to imagine someone steadfast and even then... probably changed less than you. You!" He stood Aziraphale before the corner of the couch, where, from their memories, Crowley always sat and, incidentally, where he imagined Crawly sat, but Crowley bowed for him to be seated and, after Crowley's declaration, Aziraphale accepted. No one ever sounded impressed or proud when referring to him, and yet he still comparing him favorably to an imaginary friend, a being Crowley could shape to his own preferences. 

"You are steadfast and true," Crowley continued, still improbably pleased. "You're unmovable and solid, the sea will turn aside for you."

"A stubborn fool steeped in denial," he corrected, unable to forget how he insisted on trusting Heaven.

"We're all fools at some point," he reminded him, turning to the wine despite they were in Aziraphale's home and he should be hosting. "And we all have our blind spots. You figured it out. Are you sure," he didn't face Aziraphale as he asked, "that I won't go to fast for you?"

"The ocean to my shore? Always changing always there? You can't go to fast if you always come back to me."

Rather than responding, Crowley continued to pour and Aziraphale doubted his poetry until Crowley turned back around, his eyes bright and his smile wobbly. He managed the few steps, handing Aziraphale his glass before cuddling against him on the couch. They sipped their wine in silence, only Aziraphale barely tasted it, couldn't guess which bottle Crowley selected and didn't care except that Crowley selected it. For all he could hardly believe Crowley wanted a fussy angel around, Crowley didn't seem to be able to believe the fussy angel wanted him.

"We've a few centuries to balance it out," he promised him. "Nothing is more binding than a pinky swear."

Crowley looked up at him, the tears more obvious, but for all Aziraphale wanted to hold him he thought that might be too fast right now. "No?" His voice cracked.

"Especially between a Principality and a demon. We're stuck with each other now. At least for a few centuries. To start."

"Gosh." Crowley breathed the word and Aziraphale let the silence reclaim them, giving Crowley the time he needed to catch up.

Eventually, he ran out of wine to sip and that motivated Crowley to gather himself up again. After refilling both their glasses, he sat with more ease at Aziraphale's side, but they'd never had to restart a conversation yet. So far, they'd had more trouble staying on topic than finding a topic, and after a few false states, Aziraphale was entirely done with the silence.

"What were you going to ask me?" he tried again. "You mentioned something when you were returning with the wine."

"Oh! The statue - the cupid thing, over there," he waved toward the shop's center. "Glad I'm not the only one a little too on the nose. When'd you get it?"

"Cupid statue?" Aziraphale repeated, frowning at him. "I don't have a cupid statue."

"You do, it's standing with one dainty foot on the top of the book display, the other behind it, aiming an arrow, mostly naked 'cept for a fluttery ribbon. Cherub type thing, I bet the tip of the arrow is a heart. It's pointing east."

"I haven't. Why would I have a cupid statue? That's are... silly, juvenile. I can't believe I would ever purchase such a thing. A cupid? I would never display it."

"It's right out in the open."

"That's can't be right. Why would I- I don't suppose you're joking?"

"Sorry, but it's a good warning for us, I guess," he said, saluting Aziraphale with his glass. "We know we get bad taste when we spend time together."

"Or when we're both around yet unable to spend time together." After all, their shared memories could never be as free as they'd been yesterday or today. "Really? A tacky cupid?"

"Can't you remember it? In the memories?"

"I don't want to." He frowned through the bookshelves. He could also See it if he opened his eyes, but he didn't want to do that either. "Why would I do that? I know what an angel looks like, and it's not a child wearing a ribbon playing with arrows."

"Want me to remember?" This new memories still needed to be searched for most of the details, which meant they could be ignored in a way their own memories, those they lived, couldn't.

"No, no." He sighed, contemplated his wine, and sighed again. "Let me up. I should see it for myself."

With an expressive moan for the disruption, Crowley shifted over, and brightened when Aziraphale offered his hand so they could walk through the shop together. For all he appreciated the glasses tucked into his vest, holding onto Crowley himself proved his presence far more effectively. Neither of them set aside their wine.

And there it was. At the top of the round table, so obvious Aziraphale failed to spot it earlier, when he'd concentrated on his books instead. A sweet cherub-like cupid pointing his arrow at the East.

"Oh my." Sorting through his memories of the bookstore, that one tiny detail not prominent among them, he realized he'd had it from the beginning. And he'd not bought it himself. Not refraining from smiling, he side-eyed Crowley.

"Wot?" Smug to be proven right, his own face fell. "Oh, no. I didn't. I wouldn't. Arg!" He twisted about, mortally wounded by his new past.

"One year anniversary of the shop opening."

"Nnn"

"I was touched you remembered. A year isn't so very long."

That noise barely even fit letters.

"You must've bought it earlier and probably meant it for the ten-year mark. But you couldn't wait, could you?"

"You weren't suppose to put it up! You hate cherubs! You just said so!"

"I did," he agreed, "and I do. The me in those memories did as well, but I couldn't not put it up. You were so kind to gift it to me, I had to show you I appreciated it." Watching Crowley start a dozen objections and explanations, giving up each of them, listening with increasing horror as he realized the truth behind Aziraphale's words, he downed the nearly full glass of wine, and never released Aziraphale's hand or pulling away from him.

"What is it with me and statues? Did I not have an ounce of self-preservation? I mean..." He gestured at the little angel then to the side, in the general direction of his flat and the wrestling angels. "Really? What other nonsense did I do?"

"You were the one who pointed it at the east, the day after I put it up. After you complained bitterly that I missed the joke, you insisted I had to at least do it right."

"I hate statues," he grumbled, lifted his glass to drink and discovered it empty. "It's what you get for having a boring old knob at the top. Your shop - you - deserve something more unique than that. I can't believe I didn't think you'd put up the kitschiest thing I could find. I meant to replace it, except then you liked it so much. What did you have in your time? You ever replace it?"

 _You deserve something more unique_ was exactly what Crawly had said when spotting the replacement he choose. Not an angel, Aziraphale never would have bought it if Crawly picked a cupid. Instead, he 'choose' a snake wrapped around an apple, and he'd pestered until Aziraphale turned it so the snake head pointed west - for escaping the garden and everything his position there represented. With only an echo of a real demon joining him on the garden's wall, it never felt as monumental for him as it could've. It'd been centuries after when Aziraphale accidentally shifted the story, long before it'd been written down, to include a serpent in Eden and link Crawly to the apple.

Standing with the Garden's Serpent, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate appreciated his title for the first time. It linked them together.

"At some point," he dodged, answering only part of the question and touching his shoulders to Crowley's. "I think it's sweet. Thousands of years restrained from simple words and gestures of adoration. In all your statues, you found a way to express yourself openly, yet still safely. Neither of our offices ever noticed. There's a reason I, the other I, came to appreciate every angelic themed knickknack you showed up with. They may not be an obvious love language, but they could be ours."

Crowley snorted and glowered at his empty wine glass. "Well, I hope we spent the last day snogging our brains out then, as we've got a whole different batch of issues to work though from those memories. Winged statues everywhere," he added in a grumbled, wrinkling his nose at the cupid, then realized what he'd muttered. "Ack! I mean - Not that-"

"I understand, my dear," he promised, squeezing his hand. "We have six thousand years, and we also have only one day."

"Pinky swear. We've a few centuries coming up."

"And I am very much looking forward to them. As well as finding whatever other little things you gifted me."

First rolling his eyes, Crowley hesitated then pulled Aziraphale back to the couch. "I need more wine."

Though they landed on the couch, while Crowley refilled their glasses, Aziraphale asked where he found them. Not that he was surprised they weren't familiar, as he'd not regularly hosted a demon - or allowed a demon to host him. As if he lived here as well, Crowley lead the way to the kitchen, hand in hand once more, and Aziraphale was glad for the solid reality. The kitchen was only remotely similar to his own. Yes, the layout was the same, the small sink, the kettle, the table and chairs, and even the colors and assortment of books were almost familiar.

The second chair, always intended for Crawly, shouldn't look so noticeably different, yet like the other two it was scuffed and abused, centuries of use leaving their mark. Though he always had a full set of glasses, mugs and plates, especially as he tended to leave them about, these featured far more pairs, and the collection was different. Two people rather than one, extra use even if Crowley wasn't always about, things would break or be left aside thoughtlessly, and it'd be easier to send them to the trash than put them back together. Mismatched replacements, darker cups intended for Crowley, simply more of them. He'd no idea when he started crying, holding tight to Crowley's hand while he stared, unable to bring himself to touch any of it.

Six thousand years. His entire existence on Earth. From the Garden onward, ever moment of doubt and every misstep, every triumph and every relief, he never should've lived them alone. The ache he turned to an imaginary friend to sooth never should've haunted him. He should've...

"We're together now," Crowley said softly, his face very near Aziraphale's. He'd tried to pull his hand free earlier, probably to wrap it around Aziraphale's shoulders, or maybe he tried to hold him again, but Aziraphale couldn't take his eyes of a cupboard of glassware. "A few centuries to make it up. A few centuries to start. You're not alone."

"Pinky swear."

_**August 2019** _

The Bentley turned every CD Crowley into The Best of Queen, and its taste in music was the only recommendation Aziraphale had for the vehicle. Neither his memories nor the demon had underrated about the speed, and Crowley did surpass a hundred. And this Bentley must've carried this Crowley through the fire, and never in its history had it allowed an angel within. It hated Aziraphale as only a lover over jealous over an intrusion could. Except for the first time, before the car realized Aziraphale's permanence, his door stuck whenever he opened it from the outside, never when he opened it to leave. Eventually the door broke broke outright, requiring Aziraphale to climb in Crowley's side while Crowley lectured it. His seat had a lump, no matter how he sat or what subtle miracles he tried, it merely shifted, and though they never hit a pothole, his side of the car always bounced. Every time they skidded, he was thrown away from Crowley.

Yet the speed and discomfort hardly mattered compared to Crowley's smile. Those smiles he shared with Aziraphale were content and relaxed, joyful and mischievous, occasionally nervous or relieved. His terrifying delight as he drove, his glee at breaking the rules, his joy in surpassing nature's limits with only human mechanics, were all too precious and special to miss. Certainly he could stay sedately in his bookshop, reading while the demon speed across the roads, but neither of them would enjoy that. Their destinations, historic and general, comparisons between realities and simple fun, gave him an excuse to endure the Bentley's antics. Months on and they remained inseparable.

After a day spent at Bath, recalling centuries of antics, Aziraphale tried not to obviously squirm in his seat and, dreading the long drive, started shuffling through the CDs.

"They're all the same," Crowley pointed out.

Not ready to admit he was trying to learn Crowley's tastes based on what what he tried to introduce here, because their cases were not the same, Aziraphale picked one at random. When he missed the slot the third time, Crowley growled at his car. The CD slipped right in, but now Aziraphale was certain he sat on rocks.

The street lights flashed past. If Crowley took a turn at this speed and the door opened, Aziraphale would be in for the worse kind of tumble. It wouldn't hurt him, he wouldn't even tumble really, but it wouldn't be fun. But Crowley was so happy, and he enjoyed being around Crowley when he was so unrestrained. He enjoyed being around Crowley and didn't want to be the one to suggest they part. He'd at least wait until later in the trip to say anything, so it wouldn't ruin the whole drive. But he needed a distraction and recognized the intro.

" _She keeps her Moet et Chandon in her pretty cabinet_." As an angel, he could sing more beautifully than humans could comprehend. As a human, he was less breathtaking. Though he chanted with the monks and sang with any number of choirs, he hardly had Freddie's skill.

Mouth open, Crowley stared at him.

"The road! The Road! Watch the Road!" He waved his hands ahead, ignoring the Bentley all but oozing disdain at his fretting. "You're wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night! You're going - very fast! You have to watch the road!" Perhaps he should just stay home. The Bentley wouldn't let Crowley be injured and the pair would have a much nicer time without him. "Please. The road." 

After only a glance at the road, Crowley tore off his sunglasses, eyes entirely yellow for absolutely no reason, checked ahead as a courtesy, stared at Aziraphale again, and finally returned his attention to the road. Trying to control his breathing, holding tightly to the seat with one hand and braced against the roof with the other, just waiting for the car to dump him, he barely noticed Crowley glancing at him.

" _Dynamite with a laser beam_ ," he sang, far more talented than he'd any right to be, but hesitant rather than matching the confidence the line deserved. " _Guaranteed to blow your mind..._ " And Aziraphale understood his question.

" _Anytiiiiiiiiiime!_ " Despite his terror, he started to smile.

They sang the rest of the way. Though Crowley almost managed the full range for Bohemian Rhapsody, and sang _Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me_ with vengeful exuberance, he couldn't sustain the longer notes and initially flinched when his voice broke, not taking it up again for several words after. It hinted at an older injury, physical scars that Hell would've inflicted. Continuing the song, all smiles as he relaxed his grip on his seat, Aziraphale enticed him to keep singing simply by singing himself, raising his brows in invitation and smiling far too broadly. After the first time, he hardly hesitated before rejoining and they laughed as they played with the lyrics, messed up the lyrics, and made faces at each other over them.

By the time they parked across from the bookshop, they both laughed, Aziraphale sat comfortably, and his door opened smoothly.

"Told you she'd come around," Crowley said, patting the Bentley's side and still grinning.

"You did," he agreed, a statement he'd not believed at the time and he certainly hoped the truce between them would continue. With a magnanimous nod, nearly a bow, he thanked them both. "And she did."

"Don't think I've ever sang... before, not ever," he added while Aziraphale circled the car so they could cross the street together. "Not sober, at least. Didn't know you could sing on key."

"I suppose I never risked it," he agreed, the door unlocking at his touch, a mental sweep ensuring his wards remained in place before he stepped aside to allow Crowley in first. "Especially not with you, not in those memories, in case I sounded celestial and Heaven noticed. However, I had only one tape to listen to and worked my up from humming." He and Crawly also talked, at least until Crawly started commenting on his driving. Looking back, he realized how often he monologued during those drives.

"One tape? You bought the Best of Queen and never bought another tape?" He walked backward though the shop as he asked, brushing aside the hanging philodendron. While Aziraphale brought books to the flat, Crowley brought plants to the bookshop. Neither had a room without signs of the other easily visible, ensuring they couldn't feel alone even if not in sight. "Do you own a tape player?"

"Of course not. I never bought one. It was left in a used car I bought."

"You have car!" Crowley crowed. If Aziraphale hadn't known him for so long, he'd be surprised he hadn't fallen over.

"I had a car in my own reality," he reminded him quickly. He'd found the key and assumed this meant he'd the car, but had been hoping to sell, or just forget about it. While perfectly reliable, he didn't need to hear Crowley's opinion, not of it or his driving. "I may not have one now."

"We've got to go for a drive!"

"We just did. I'm getting the wine."

His attempts to change the conversation failed, and he could hardy answer any of Crowley's questions about the kind of car or the highest speed or anything except the color, which was silver-blue. Finally he agreed to go on a, very short, drive the next day.

As soon as Crowley saw Aziraphale's car, he began a very familiar rant. "Wha- WHAT IS THAT? You're an immortal angel, and that - THAT - was outdated before it left the lot! You could have anything at all, and you have this? ... Tartan seats! You'll use a miracle for that but not..." He stopped suddenly when he sat down though, squirming only a moment and stretching his legs. "It's comfortable. Why's it comfortable? They're never comfortable." Crawly had been shorter than Crowley.

"I know how to fit you," he promised, feeling his old friend's company along with his new friend.

They'd not driven for five minutes before he turned the tape on, breaking all previous records and Freddie, thankfully, shut up Crowley's commentary as effectively as Crawly's.

_**November 2019** _

When they needed a break from watching Shakespeare plays at Crowley's flat, they settled on Merlin to see a this reality's newest take on the legend. At least this time, they expected the story to leave reality far behind. However, Crowley squirmed ridiculously and they were back in the bookshop almost immediately, sorting through older legends, none of which satisfied the demon. From his grumbled complaints, Aziraphale deciphered that Arthur had been announced as Pendragon's daughter, and scholars disagreed if that'd been a trick on behalf of his parents, if Arthur himself pretended later on in order to claim the throne, or if he was a transman. Mordred was still considered his son, the other parent varying with the legend, who was raised by Arthur's half sister because Arthur hadn't married yet.

"Should've showed up somewhere," he grumbled, surrounded by books and glowering at them as if they might change their text. Very possibly, if they knew what he wanted, other books might, however Aziraphale's were protected, especially when he sat right here.

"You couldn't asked him yourself," Aziraphale pointed out, still uncertain what exactly upset Crowley.

"Ask him what?" He scrunched his nose. "I guess all your books got it right, he's a man in all of them, and no one argues about it. 'Sides, it's not like the Black Knight was going to chat with Arthur. And Kaye figured me out before I got even close, blackmailed me into throwing a fight as a huge black dragon just to impress Guinevere. Wanker. Impressed the bards more than her," he added with a roll of his eyes. "That's why Britain likes him so much."

"Except Britain doesn't like him, not here. He's considered rather boorish."

"Good. The prat threatened me with an exorcism and carried Holy Water so I couldn't eat him. Probably bribed the bards to make it sound better."

"Unfortunately, he's long dead so I can't probably repay him for threatening you," Aziraphale replied, keeping his expression neutral even as Crowley grinned. In truth, he'd rather spend an evening pouring over books and listening to Crowley complain than watch TV. For all he appreciated a story in whatever form humanity choose to tell it, a TV was a flat surface, lacking both the interactivity of theater and meditativeness of reading. Listening to Crowley ramble, thoughtlessly sharing so many tidbits of his unique past, surpassed any human storytelling. "And the Welsh have their own legends, which don't align with the English versions. A number of historians noted as much."

"I know," Crowley said, waving at the stacks of books arranged about a vibrant peace lily that enjoyed the dim light. They'd literature from a multitude of regions, ages and languages, possibly compiled over several days while they talked it through. He'd need to find another facet of their pasts to fascinate Crowley so they could research together again. "They're just as bad - good. As good, I suppose," he said again. "It's how the man wanted to be known. Just strange no one mentions it." Making a face, he leaned back and studied Aziraphale, starting to grin. "Hungry? Want some frumentry?"

"I suppose, my dear, that'll depend on what you're fermenting lately." As he stood, Crowley followed.

"I retired," he replied, holding out his arm, no longer dusty and clothes pressed.

"In that case, I may be talked into it." A snap returned the books to their proper place, or at least a proper enough place, as well as straightening his own clothes. With Heaven no longer lecturing him about minding his miracles, he enjoyed his frivolous indulgences. Not to the point he miracled every outfit or object, as Crowley would, but he hardly missed cleaning up. He slipped his arm around Crowley's and leaned against him. "Do you know a place in London that specializes in frumentry?" Not exactly porridge, but a meat and grain dish, he didn't believe it'd been 'reinvented' yet. If those 'trendsetters' had stumbled on it, Crowley would know before him.

"Perhaps not," Crowley agreed. "What about boar's head? Or a squirrel in armor riding a swan? Or-"

"Perhaps, darling," he intervened as they reached the door and needed to break apart to fetch their coats, "something a little simpler?"

"Just because it's French doesn't make it simple." Crowley helped Aziraphale into his winter jacket. It really wasn't necessary, they could stay warm and dry on their own, but he did enjoy a certain gentleman settling his jacket on his shoulder.

"Fish and chips?" he countered, offering Crowley his own jacket. Not only did he enjoy playing Crowley's gentleman as well, he was always relieved to ensure he dressed warmly. "I'm sure Arthur would've loved chips."

Laughing, Crowley just nodded.

_**January 2020** _

The package arrived when the shop was open, and that alone made Aziraphale suspicious. But the carrier had delivered shipments before, normally from estate sales, and so after a few questions Aziraphale signed for it. Placing it next to the register, he aligned it with the edge and considered it. Not blessed or cursed, no lingering scent from either Heaven or Hell, if either of them know how to post a package normally. Nothing of the exterior revealed its contents, the box a simple cube, the return address meaningless and no labels to provide hints. Fortunately, it was shaped all wrong to be his sword, while neither the scales nor crown otherwise related to him.

"What's it?" Crowley asked, seeming to materialize from the back of the shop. Able to blend with the shadows, the demon took to unsettling Aziraphale's costumers into leaving, either as a favor or the joy of it.

"I don't know," Aziraphale said as he cut through the tape. "I don't recall ordering anything however..." He shrugged. It wasn't likely to be books either. "Well, it was an exceptional year, wasn't it?"

"Is it heavy?" he asked, angling closer to lean against his back and peer over his shoulder. "Did you shake it? Does it rattle?"

"I am not a child with-" Already opening it, he paused to twist and study his demon. "Did you get me a gift?"

Starting to play ignorant, his growing smile grin him away. "Depends on if you like it."

Almost, Aziraphale closed it so he could shake it and listen for rattling, but he might accidentally Look while giving it his attention and, besides, he'd no reason for patience and pulled the wrapping paper out.

A brass object, about twice the size of a fist, in a plastic wrapper, and at his shoulder Crowley practically vibrated. Setting aside the packing slip, Aziraphale lifted the object, which much be partially hollowed as it didn't weigh enough to be solid brass, and removed the wrapping.

And stopped breathing.

A snake wrapped around an apple, its head hoovering over to look ahead, the pattern on the coils achingly familiar. It lacked the tongue, broken at the mouth, but it'd not been bought new and the owner hadn't protected it enough the past hundred years. Several owners, most likely, passing between them rather than keeping it safe as the center piece in a single bookshop. Even as he turned it over, he knew he'd find the screw-hole, ready to be attached to a post.

"I thought, you know, to replace the cupid, something between you and me. Almost waited for the one year mark, just like last time, but I'm even... Aziraphale?" Even as Crowley found his favorite ways to pronounce his name, each of them having a new meaning, none of them matched how Aziraphale heard it for thousands of years, when it'd been spoken without voice. Crowley touched his face. "You're crying." 

He closed his eyes, all of it terribly unfair. Thousands of years, never existing for anyone else, never real despite his insistence, and replaced the same day as his dismissal. "Crawly."

"Wot? N- ...oh." Crowley shifted away and for all Aziraphale wanted to grab him back, to lean into his tall, lanky strength, his hands were already too full.

"Why this one?" he whispered, eyes still closed.

"A snake and an apple, that's all me," he mumbled. "Looked at other angels, too, but they didn't fit you. The ones holding books looked all wrong and you didn't really like having the sword and... I wanted to be here, too. Some bloke was remodeling and it fits your style. They said it's.... you already know the tongue's broken off, don't you?"

"Yes." Drawing in a deep breath, he turned it over in his hands, noting nicks and tarnish, unprotected by a fussy angel for a century. It wouldn't be the same one, unlikely to be, at least, though since he'd not brought it - at Crawly's direction - someone else would've and it could've been this one. Except it'd never been any of them. Not until this one, showing up late. He turned, raising his eyes to Crowley's glasses' the shop was still open, anyone could walk in, and he didn't care. "Why this one?"

"Liked it." Shrugging, he stepped farther away and glanced aside. "I wasn't prompted, if that's what you mean, nor drawn to it or anything. I just liked the look of it. And there's not a lot to choose from, believe it or not, apparently there's more demand for angels than snakes. I didn't want to nick anything," he added, and he squirmed. "I wanted to surprise you, guess that worked, but guess we should've gone together. Or I should've picked an angel."

"No," he said, gave himself a shake and snapped his fingers, locking the world out. In the past several months, he found innumerable angelic memorabilia, both gifts from Crowley and bought by Aziraphale himself, and without a personal sentimental attachment to them, he'd grown rather exasperated with each new discovering. "No, I'm glad you didn't pick another angel."

"Almost got an angel wrestling a snake," he said, leaning back on his heels and risking a smile. "But the angel was all wrong and it was too big. Might get it to replace the one in the flat. It's a bit more comfy looking than the current one."

"For the snake or angel?" he asked, attempting to return the smile. To an extent, he must've succeeded, as Crowley smirked and started to relax, but Aziraphale still felt the weight of the apple in his hands and dropped his eyes to it as he rubbed it with his thumb. "Do you ever wonder what happened to them?"

When silence answered him, he hadn't the nerve to look up.

"Have you tried to speak with him?" Not that they'd left each other alone for any length of time, but even if both in the flat or the bookshop, no longer panicked if alone in a room. For all he'd never been real to anyone but Aziraphale, Crowley had been his friend, and their last conversation still sat heavily in his gut. He'd not even admitted it to Crowley yet. They'd never spoken about that last argument. "Your angel, have you-"

"You're my angel." His long fingers closed around Aziraphale's hands, a plea in his voice that Aziraphale couldn't respond to, seeing only the apple within their hands. "You are. Look, it's not the same, the tongue's broken, and it's- It's just a statue. I can fix it up, change the pattern to match mine, coil it about differently, It'll be new to us. That's what it's supposed to be. Me in your bookshop, me and you. Together."

"But don't you miss him? He was with you for so long. They- Did he send you away?" Rejecting an imaginary friend felt bad enough, but to be rejected by an imaginary friend?

"Why would an angel want to hang around with a real demon? With me?" Dropping his hands, Crowley paced away. "Heaven threw me out and everything Hell thought I was good for, I never even did. I'm as much a fake as an imaginary friend. I couldn't cut it as an angel and I'm no better as a demon. I'm never what I'm supposed to be, too lazy and inquisitive or too guilty and... nice. Who'd care about me?" He halted, facing away, arms dropping to his sides, his next words weighing him to the spot. "I'm not worthy enough for anyone."

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley's back and left the apple on the desk. He knew those words, and it seemed senseless that sleek, handsome Crowley with his beautiful yellow eyes who gained accommodations from his office could feel them as deeply as a fussy angel out of step with time who rarely gained acknowledgment from his office, yet he heard the truth in his words.

Thankfully, Crowley didn't pull away or snap as Aziraphale approached, which must mean something. He wrapped his arms around his waist and leaned against his back, resting his face against his neck.

"You've been so eager to stay at my side," he said softly, searching for a way to be believed, "when I've never been able to believe anyone real could care about me. You've shown me your interests and listened to mine. I don't know what I'm worthy of, but I hope I could be worthy of you." Though still stiff, Crowley didn't snort in disdain or pull away. He might not believe, yet, but he listened. "Angels and demons, we're not that different. I didn't fall from Heaven only because they never cared enough to notice me, not for anything on my part. It doesn't matter which you are, or whatever failings others would think to assign you. You're always you, and it's you I adore. It's you I care for. I'm probably not as good at showing it, I can be so worried about showing anything dear to me, but I am as eager to be at your side."

"He said he wasn't real," Crowley mutter, poking at Aziraphale's arm as if he might not touch fabric or flesh. "There'd never been a real being that knew me and wanted me. When I picked up the Antichrist as a baby, he said Heaven would win like I wouldn't be destroyed. When Hell figured out I lost the Antichrist, I nearly ran off, just like every other time. It wouldn't matter what side won between Heaven and Hell, I'd lose as badly as humanity. My imaginary friend told me he was imaginary and I'd played pretend for six thousand years. I never had anything but a make-believe angel to care about me."

"Oh, Crowley," he signed pressing his face against his neck, hearing his own words rephrased once more. "I'm so sorry, I'm so very sorry. I never-"

"Wot? What're you apologizing for? You didn't..." But Aziraphale wouldn't let him go as he turned, though he did loosen his hold enough so Crowley could rotate until he faced him.

"I do. Every time I said we weren't real, either our friendship or ourselves. Your imaginary angel echoed my panicked denial of Heaven's goals and our relationship. When we were both scared and helpless, I lashed out at you and pulled away."

"So? I wanted to give up and run off all three times. Get out and hide from both sides. Didn't I?" he added, hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, arms half laying over Aziraphale's, who still held him close.

"You said it wouldn't matter what was real in the stars."

"Yeah, well, and that's a lie too isn't it? Just leave all of Earth to it's fate on it's own? We both like Earth too much to give it up, the stars wouldn't cut it. If you need to apologize," he said, touching his forehead to Aziraphale's, "then I do, too. I shouldn't've keep harping on it, pushing you to do what I wanted instead of listening to you."

"But you never ran away."

"And you were always there in Tadfield. You," he added, leaning into the word, "were there. My imagination wasn't up to it, but Adam pulled us together and you were there with your ineffable plan and prompting and everything we needed. Look, if my imaginary friend said stuff because he was echoing you, if our imaginary friends were messengers across realities to connect us, then I don't need to call my imaginary angel, not to hear if he regrets his words or for me to apologize to or to know how he's doing, because you're right here. You're not all the same, but you feel the same. There's differences, I think my angel had more of my own doubts than yours at times. You're not my imaginary angel, but you're still my angel. My friend."

Recalling the critiques about the car and while driving, the apple and snake on the table, innumerable snarky remarks when Crowley quoted or paraphrased Crawly, all the events connected with their new memories, and even more the assurance Crowley offered, so like Crawly's presence, Aziraphale gazed into those beautiful eyes and smiled. "My demon." It'd been unfair before, when he couldn't hold Crawly's hands or his gaze into his eyes, when he didn't know his scent or the sound of his voice. That could change now. "My friend." 

"Pinky swear," Crowley promised.

A slightly wider, larger bronze snake encircled the bronze apple. When the light caught it, the apple shone bright red, while the now smooth snake reflected black with a dark red belly. Though it didn't appear broken anymore, it still lacked the tongue. It did not face East, as the angel had for the Eastern Gate, nor West, for the angel who left the Garden. It faced South, for the southern pansy who chose his own direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I got into poison ivy and it went bad to worse in a nasty way. I was over halfway done with the last section and just couldn't get it right. (And then I got the rash in between my fingers and that was that.)
> 
> There is an epilogue, their own 'lockdown' phone call.


	8. epilogue

**Lockdown 2020**

Aziraphale lay on the couch, theoretically to read, except his book rested on his chest and he'd closed his eyes. His head lay in Crowley's lap. Theoretically, Crowley scrolled through the news, except his phone sat on the armrest and his attention was on Aziraphale's curls, as were his fingers. They recognized a plague when it arrived, the whole world connected far more quickly than ever, and settled into the bookshop weeks before London shutdown. Pestilence would make up for missing Armageddon, and they could only hope the other Horsemen wouldn't gather in force again. Not even Adam could send them away this time.

(While they stocked the winery and redistributed the plants about the bookshop, even converting an upstairs room, Aziraphale had carefully inquired if Crowley might have anything 'else' that needed tending during the upcoming turmoil. Though he'd not say it aloud, he rather enjoyed most of Crowley's demonic tricks; they saved him from a righteous comeuppance, but he didn't want to witness his demon making anyone more miserable with everything he knew would happen. Even if it wold be the first time they separated since facing down the other's bosses.

And then Crowley, being Crowley, joked about the ducks missing them, only to start laughing as he caught on. He promised he was permanently off the clock, and, whatever Hell had thought, he never worked during plagues anyway. All the big events he left to the humans handle, who he declared could impress Hell a lot better than him. Draping himself on the couch, he claimed he'd spend the entire run right there, and really wasn't far off.)

Theoreticals aside, Aziraphale hovered on the edge of slumber, listening to Crowley hum half-recalled lullabies. Occasionally, he even sang, while his nails drew lazy lines down Aziraphale's scalp and circled in his curls. It'd a puffy mess afterward, and outside the bookshop the world struggled, but in this moment he could melt from contented happiness.

" _ALL WE HEAR IS RADIO GA GA! RADIO GOO GOO! RADIO GA GA!"_

Shoving himself upright, Aziraphale hadn't the wherewithal to stand, simply sat on the edge of the couch and stared about him. He searched the among the shelves and books for... speakers?

" _ALL WE HEAR IS RADIO GA GA! RADIO GOO GOO! RADIO GA GA!_ "

"Someone leave their phone in the shop?" Crowley already prowled deeper among the shelves, trailing the music. "And didn't try calling 'til now?"

" _ALL WE HEAR IS RADIO GA GA! RADIO BLAH BLAH!_ "

"Oh. It's your phone." Confusion passing, Aziraphale yawned before pushing himself up and trailing after. He knew where the phone resided.

" _RAIOooo, What's Neew? Radio, soooome-onnne stiiill loooooves you."_

"It isn't." He'd reached the other desk and jerked drawers open, only to slam them close and try the others again, repeating his search when he couldn't decipher were the sound originated.

" _loooooooooves .... yoo-"_ The phone stopped at the same time Aziraphale covered Crowley's hand before he shoved that drawer closed again.

"Not yours-yours, Crawly-yours. For demonic things." Revealing the false bottom, he pulled out the sleeve and Crowley goggled.

"You've got a laptop! A real computer! And a mobile? And a tablet!" He paused. "What demonic things?"

"They're truly not that different from the car," he assured him with a smile and glance. They'd donated the car, after Crowley insisted on fixing it up to be worth a donation and then he insisted they leave the seats tartan. However, this didn't mollify his demon, so he pulled out the mobile and tapped it on. If he thought to check, which he wouldn't, he'd see the battery still full though he wouldn't recall when he last used it. "Without you to keep track of the newest gadgets for me, I needed to investigate them myself. I'd honestly forgotten. Oh!" He looked to the computer, wiggling as he realized the next. "I'll have stories to catch up on!"

"You read books on your computer?"

"Fanfiction, rather," he corrected, returning to the issue at hand. Those stories would wait for him a little longer. "I can't get them in book form." Whoever called, they hadn't left a voicemail, unless they were still recording it. More likely, they were texting. No one could call this line unless he gave them the number personally, even telemarketers would skip over it in their list, and now that Crawly hadn't any connections, that left very few people who could call.

"That's me," Crowley said, peering over his shoulder. The background was a twining black snake with a red belly, a theme that played across both laptop and tablet in any number of programs. He'd commissioned them, encouraging artists and getting the coils just the way he wanted. It was suddenly very obvious he reproduced a certain tattoo, though he'd never seen it before the end of the world.

"They were for Crawly, after all," he murmured shifting without actually moving away from the attentive demon; it'd be worse if he tried avoiding him. He clicked on the recent calls rather than waiting longer for a voicemail or text to show and tilted it for Crowley to see more easily. "Do you know-" Crowley snatched it from his hand.

"That's Warlock's mobile! How'd Warlock get your - Crawly's number?"

"I left it for him, when I played 'ol Frank' on my own," he said, speaking slowly as he tried recalling the message he scrawled on a sticky note after the party. Even then, he'd not expected it to matter a week on, let along the next summer. They rarely touched on their time with the Warlock so far. When Crowley had recognized the demons who raised the boy, he'd shuddered and begun pacing, but the Dowlings already returned to America and they decided it best not to interfere in the boy's life, or with his parents, again. "Dear me, I thought he'd only recall Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth together. Both of us. What if he recalls only my past? Those demons... I couldn't protect him. Even when I thought the world would last only three more days, the least I could do was leave him a note."

"You didn't leave him a note when we worked there together, did you? Could he have gotten it from then?"

"Together, we quit well before the party, and I definitely never acquired a mobile." He heaved a sigh. "We were influential, but less part of his life when we acted together, we had the Arrangement and kept to our roles. You hadn't any angels, or demons, and could act more freely, while I tried to balance the affect of too many demons without attracting their attention. I hadn't thought he'd be able to call, not anymore, but there's no other missed calls or messages. It must be the first time he's tried." He paused, pressing his lips together but needed to say it. "He must need assistance."

Crowley's eyes widened, and he hit the Call button then the Speaker button. It didn't even ring before it connected.

"Fran?" The child must've still been staring at his own mobile.

"Warlock?" Crowley spoke at the same time, shifting his stance and his voice higher and feminine. Though Aziraphale never saw Ashtoreth personally, he recognize her now. Her stiff chin and straight spine a sharp contrast to the rest of Crowley's appearance.

" _Nanny_?"

"Yes, my dear?" she asked, her relief as clear as Aziraphale's. If he recognized Ashtoreth that easily, then Warlock hadn't, entirely, a childhood of demons manipulating him. Whatever happened, it couldn't be all bad.

"But.. isn't this Fran's number?" Though he didn't whisper, he spoke quietly, and sounded more confused than upset. Hopefully, he wasn't in danger, but Aziraphale hardly remember what he'd written in that note. Something about an unexpected departure, probably that he was proud or loved the boy, and the number in case of emergencies, but the phrasing escaped him.

"According to Fran," Ashtoreth said, delivering a far more judgmental glance down her nose than Crowley would, "this is Crawly's phone."

"Wait! Crawly's real?" His voice raised in surprise then dropped in suspicion. "Why would a giant snake need a phone? Why- Hi, Fran!"

"Hello, Warlock!" he replied, grinning merrily while Crowley gawked over the snake comment. Whatever else, the boy sounded unharmed, and as quick as ever on the more important matters. "Crawly doesn't really need a phone, I was just teasing your Nanny. How are you? I didn't think you'd still have this number." If he met the Dowlings, he wouldn't sound like Brother Francis, who he never pretended to be, but he could easily sound like reliable Frank again.

"Yeah... huh, that's the thing, Fran.." When Warlock trailed off, Aziraphale's fingers clenched. He too easily recalling how often he failed him. Heaven allowed Hell to abuse a child for their war; they knowing allowed demons to overtake a home. "Everyone only calls you Brother Francis, and no one remembers you as 'ol Frank the Gardener,' or any of those horrible people who worked for Dad either. But I do. And I remember Nanny being here without you, talking about her Elijah, but they say Nanny never had a husband. They all say Brother Francis was here at the same time as Nanny, but that's like a movie someone made up about everything. I remember the big fight at my birthday party, when you were there, and nothing at all happening with Nanny, and I guess there was a mess in the other one? There's all these pictures of a food fight, and I almost remember those but neither of you were, really, there. I guess? And then we went back to America and everything there makes sense. It's all one thing."

Panic in his eyes, Crowley looked to Aziraphale for stability. Would the nanny have agreed to stay out of his life if she'd known her ward remembered the abuse of those the demons? Would she have stepped back if she'd known? Would the gardener? With everything happening so quickly for them both since Armageddon, even by human standards but especially compared to their own lives, had Crowley simply been unable to examine his own thoughts on the matter. Though it felt harsh, especially given how they passed this afternoon, Aziraphale hadn't had time to concentrate on Warlock at all.

When Adam reshuffled their realities, the main reason Heaven and Hell came to accept a single past was their overall disinterest in Aziraphale and Crowley and their antics across time. Busy preparing for the war, and then distracted by it not happening, they hadn't noticed the change and it slipped past. None of the humans at the end of the world noticed either, but neither Crowley nor Aziraphale meant much to them, they were chance meetings and recent acquaintances, and their perceptions of them easily mingled. If Hell and Heaven could forget, it had seemed safe to assume none of the Dowlings' staff would remember either, especially when their records showed Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth both worked for them. However, if anyone would remember the demon and angel uniquely, it would likely be among the humans who recently spent nearly a decade with them. And, clearly, the child they helped raise.

"In fact, a few days after your birthday ended up being very eventful," Aziraphale said before the silence stretched too long. "Largely by being uneventful for the rest of the world. However, until that point, Nanny and I did not exist in the same reality. Now-"

"But you were Nanny's Elijah, and you had Crawly."

"Yes, well," he agreed, glaring at Crowley's grin, "perhaps better to say we did not exist directly in each other's realities, even if we influenced each other indirectly. Since the weekend after your birthday, there is only a single past, which is the one everyone remembers."

"Not you," he repeated, as stubborn as ever. "Not me."

"The curse of greatness, my dear," Crowley said, and though he raised his pitch to match Ashtoreth, he remained Crowley, phrasing his words only slightly differently for Warlock's sake. "You brushed too close to world ending powers at birth. With all that resolved, the world will stay a single reality as it should have from the start, and we best find a way to resolve your memories."

"What's that mean?" His panic surprised Crowley, shocking him to silence, but Aziraphale recognized it.

"Nothing like that, Warlock, I promise," he said, laying a hand on Crowley's arm to sooth him. He'd no way of knowing the terms the demons had used. "Nanny wouldn't ever let anyone harm you, would she? She just means we'll talk about it, as we always did, you and I. And this time, Nanny will join us. Do you think that'll help?"

"Ah... yeah," he murmured, still shaken, but his uncertainty unusual to Aziraphale's ears. Was he dealing with the survival instincts of two very distinct childhoods, while a third ghosted about his past? Even as an angel and demon, they had some work to overlay their own past with the shared memories they'd not experienced. Warlock was only a human, only a child, and he'd three of them. But his next words held more strength, and excitement. "Nanny would've torn them all apart, you know. She knows all about crushing your foes under your feet."

"Indeed she does," Aziraphale managed, caught between Warlock's enthusiastic revenge and Crowley's dark scowl. Even if those demons didn't know how they angered him, Crowley would ensure that revenge reached them. "Unfortunately, we can't visit American-"

"We're back! That's what- We came to visit. Dad said there wasn't any real reason we couldn't come, but Mom says we can't fly home. She said he could go back if he wanted, but me and her aren't getting on a plane. We're all in the vacation house now, and got our stuff out of storage. And it's... It's easier in America, I could ignore it. Mostly. But all this stuff, it's not all the same. Pictures I made with Nanny, and toys _they_ picked out, and then I found your note."

"And you called," Aziraphale finished when Warlock remained silent too long. "We've very glad you did."

"And you're together!" At his delight, Aziraphale felt his checks warm and he stuttered. Of course, the child would only be thinking in mundane human terms, but even-

"Yes, we are," Crowley said, relishing the words as he spoke in Ashtoreth's voice. "We-"

"Is Crawly there? Are _you_ Crawly, Nanny? Can you turn into a giant snake and talk to plants? Do you tell Fran how to take care of them? Can I see you like that now? You were always invisible when you were with Fran."

Mouth dropping open, Crowley stared at the phone and then at Aziraphale, who could hardly breathe as he kept his laughter quiet. "Why, Warlock," he managed, earning a glare from Crowley for saying anything, "you'll have to ask her nicely. She has quite a few forms and I believe her favorite is human."

With a disappointed noise of consideration, which he must've learned from Crowley, Warlock paused. But Aziraphale was wiping the tears from his eyes and Crowley opened and closed his mouth pointlessly. "Better than Elijah. He was dead."

The boy hadn't derided the dinosaurs as badly as he dismissed Elijah's fate. The insult hit Crowley's creativity, especially when outdone by Aziraphale, and freed him from the last threads of guilt for not considering Warlock's trouble, replacing them with a frown not meant to be comical. Laughing so hard he doubled over, Aziraphale had to turn away.

"The nicest part of being together is everyone being alive," Crowley agreed, managing Ashtoreth's prim words as he spoke, "as well as together. Are you holding up, Warlock?"

"I'm okay," he replied, with more honesty than he ever offered Fran. Of course, Nanny could protect him as Fran couldn't; Nanny had ensured nothing that he might need protecting from ever approached him. "It's weird, but you're here, and Fran's here. ... Did they get added too?"

"No, they were left behind," Crowley promised, the same vow going to those demons. "They won't bother you again."

"They all left anyway. It was... weird. The water burned them."

"I blessed the sprinklers," Aziraphale whispered to Crowley's confusion then smiled at the phone. "We'll need to speak with your parents before we can visit. It isn't just-"

"We can use video!"

"Um... yes" While they could set something up, he no longer knew what to expect of the Dowlings, or their expectations of the gardener and nanny. On the other hand, they waved their way past more difficult restrictions and Warlock deserved attention. In fact, it'd probably take an effort to keep Crowley from driving out there tonight. "We should do that. Do you have Nanny's number?"

"No," he began, but a knock interrupted him, Harriet calling his name through a door. "Gottago." The line cut out before either could intervene. Though Crowley frowned at the phone a moment as if he might ring back, and Aziraphale wouldn't stop him if he did, the demon sighed instead.

"I'll text him later, make sure no one else sees it." He shrugged and rolled back on his heels. "Best find out what he's said to his parents, if he's complained to them about those memories. Might inspire them to invite us to help him, make sure they think we're helpful and not the problem."

"Oh?" He began then sighed. "They would find his behaviors new, wouldn't they?"

"Having a host of demons raise you will do that," he agreed, scowling then smiled. "But, as far as they remember, we left well before the new behaviors, so they're likely to think he's latched because things were okay, and whatever 'bad' happened, happened after we left. I'll come up with an excuse for to call Harriet tomorrow. We used to talk..." His frown sharpened. "Two memories is gonna make this tricky."

"Brother Francis has no reason to speak with them," he apologized.

"I can get you an invite, Fran," he said with a wink. "Wonder who on the staff will win the nanny and gardener bet?" But his smile only lasted a moment. "You think Warlock will be okay?"

Aziraphale held out his hand, smiling as Crowley slipped his into it. "Physical ailments are not the only kind I can heal. I soothed a great many of the demons' affect during his childhood, as much as I could, and now he's a childhood with you as well. We'll ensure he's okay. We're his godparents, after all." After a deep breath, Crowley nodded. "Together."

"Weren't even damned for it," he added, a quirk to his smile.

Dipping his head, Aziraphale smiled up at him through his lashes. He'd be damned if it meant staying with his real demon, but it'd not make Crowley happy to hear that confession, and the angel preferred being opposites and the same regardless.

But Crowley, being Crowley, barely let him bask in the moment. Instead, he waved the mobile at him and then at the laptop and tablet. "What demonic things?"

It will end in a garden, just as it began, but they're no where near their ending. Pinky swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this Aziraphale reads all the fanfication, even if he doesn't watch TV and rarely watches movies, and he leaves kudos and wonderful comments, and writers would've worried about him over the months since Armageddon but they've also had a hard time remembering him. Now that he's back, we'll all be delighted. (His icon is a snake, though, not an angel.)
> 
> Crowley is genderfluid here a bit like I am, but I'm still figuring it out, so sorry if it's off. There's some of being Ashtoreth and some of playing the part for Warlock's sake. (And they do help him, and Nanny informs Thad he's wearing a mask from now on.) 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed the story! It's been fun to write.


End file.
